


Endurance without Hope

by Bill the Pony (TAFKAB)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, But at the end Frodo is beginning the long road, Depressed Frodo, Depression, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mayor Samwise, Old Samwise, PTSD Frodo, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Some readers say it feels finished, Suicidal Thoughts, Valinor, You never really do finish recovering from depression, sort of unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/Bill%20the%20Pony
Summary: Expectations clash with reality when Sam arrives in Valinor sixty years after Frodo's departure from Middle Earth.    (An old story)





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a drabble written by gardnerhill on Live Journal, in which Frodo realized Sam had changed and become like a king during his long life in the Shire. This is not a Sam as King of the Shire story, but it is a story about the changes in both hobbits during the sixty or so years they were apart with Frodo living in Valinor, and how they finally led to healing for Frodo. This story may challenge some commonly-held fanon characterizations, implies mortals don't die in Valinor, and is angst-heavy; it may be painful to read in places, and is probably not to everyone's taste. But I feel it is a story that needed to be told-- my inner Frodo found it so compelling that he drew me out of retirement and put me to work writing.

Frodo could scarcely hear the thunder of the sea and the mewing cries of seabirds, so hard was his heart hammering in his ears. The sky remained empty, save for the wheeling gulls and the Sun, mounting towards noon. His cloak blew back and he caught it with a sidelong glance at Gandalf, who waited patiently astride Shadowfax. He watched without comment, his brow creased. He looked as though he should have a pipe between his lips. Not that either of them had tasted pipeweed for many years.

Frodo felt his lips curl with a wry smile, and returned his gaze to the waters, but this time there was a white shape there, terribly small, shining brightly in the Sun. His fingers tightened on the reins of his pony, making it dance, and he forced them to relax, patting its neck to steady it. Even here, things were ordered according to their nature.

A small group of Elves appeared upon the sea-wall and three of them dismounted, then began the journey down the carven stair towards the dock. That would be Elrond, Galadriel, and Glorfindel, their silver-grey cloaks welcome spots of softness against the stark white of the opal and alabaster wall. A fitting group to greet Samwise, they had agreed.

Frodo bit his lip; the ship was nearer now, sails full-bellied in the brisk onshore breeze. By the time the elves drew near and took up their places at the stone balustrade, it was nosing around the quay, and its sails emptied and hung slack, falling and furling as the mariners drew on the ropes. Golden oars emerged and dipped into the surface of the bay, droplets falling from them like gleaming diamonds.

Frodo felt the strangest urge to flee, to rein his pony around and heel it hard; he might yet reach the dune grasses and be lost to view by the time the ship moored. A foolish thought, a foolish fear, surely-- he had waited the most part of a lifetime for this moment. And yet, fear mingled with joy in his breast, an almost forgotten sensation that made Gandalf's eyes seek him, lips pursed with concern.

"Neither of you is the hobbit he was," Gandalf spoke, as always aware of Frodo's thought as soon as he was himself, if not sooner. "And neither of you is the hobbit he shall yet be."

Frodo felt an unaccustomed spike of irritation and spared a hard thought for the fatalistic equivocations of the Valar, though he knew them for wisdom, and Gandalf chuckled. "Patience, Frodo."

And yet Frodo feared. Would Sam be old and worn, feeble? Would life have treated him well, or harshly? Would his wits be wandering or sound? Would he still remember his fondness for his old master?

The keel of the ship brushed the dock and the bowline was thrown and set; soon mooring lines were in place around all the worn pillars that stood there, anchoring the ship firmly on the lee side of the dock. Frodo fidgeted, and his pony danced again. The gang-board was lifted and laid, and Frodo tried to fill his chest, which suddenly seemed it would not take enough air.

One of the Elves bent over something Frodo could not see beyond the tall gunwale of the ship. "Here, now, none of that foolishness." The voice that answered the motion was a little reedy but sharp with annoyance; Frodo glimpsed motion, and realized it was the swing of a staff. It struck the elf in the shin and pushed him aside firmly, for all the world like Lobelia Sackville-Baggins wielding her umbrella. "I'm old, but I'm not so old as that, yet. I'll climb off myself or not at all, thankee."

Frodo felt his eyes widen; the elves chuckled and made way. Frodo's teeth sank in his lip as Sam appeared, looking hale and cantankerous, his curls wind-tossed and white as snow. His glance raked the dock and settled on Frodo, looking him up and down, sharp as a gimlet. He nodded satisfaction and stepped onto the board, using his silver-shod walking stick for punctuation as much as for support as he made his way down on to the dock.

Frodo sat still, eyes drinking Sam in, shocked by the change in him-- still robust, he looked, strong and hearty, but his face was worn and lined. Frodo could not move, breath frozen in his chest as Sam stepped off the plank. He swayed a moment and frowned down at the stone under his feet, thumping it with his staff, and Frodo felt his eyes well with tears and his throat fill with laughter, but Sam didn't hesitate further.

He stepped forward and caught Frodo's pony by the bridle. "Frodo Baggins, as I live and breathe, you haven't changed a hair."

Gandalf stirred and his hand fell on Frodo's shoulder, and Frodo woke from his daze. "Sam."

Sam's weathered face split into a broad grin. "Won't you come down and give me a proper greeting? Or must I climb up?"

Frodo hastily slithered down, all but missing his stirrup, and Sam scooped him up, clapping his back fiercely before putting his hands on Frodo's shoulders and holding him away. "A bit of snow in your hair, I reckon. Not so much as mine, though. You'll have to keep trying." He let Frodo go with a wink and turned to Gandalf. "Is Bilbo still with us?"

"He stayed at home. Journeying for more than a league or two doesn't agree with him these days," Gandalf smiled.

"It will be a fine thing to see him again!" Sam beamed, and stepped forward, past his pony. "If that isn't Shadowfax, I'm a rabbit," he eyed the white stallion. "Sea air agrees with him, it seems. My poor old Bill ought to have come along when you went. He's been dead and gone these forty years now." He paused then, and lifted his face a bit higher. "You're looking well, Gandalf." Ducking neatly under the pony's head, he reached up, and Gandalf bent down to clasp his hand. Sam shook it firmly.

"Well, it won't do to dawdle about here until the sun sets." Sam released Gandalf and the pony at once. "Is this my beast? A fine animal. Good horseflesh." He mounted, leaving Frodo, dithering on the dock, to follow hastily in his wake.

"You are looking well yourself, Mayor Gamgee." Gandalf reined Shadowfax back a step, revealing the other Elves.

"Elrond. Glorfindel. Lady Galadriel!" Sam's face creased with a smile of pure pleasure. "Well this is a treat, and no mistake." Sitting on the pony's back, he was even with their eyes, and he heeled it expertly to approach them, again holding out his hand.

Frodo felt himself blinking and also felt the pressure of Gandalf's eyes on him, though he did not look to meet them. A thousand carefully sculpted words lay unused on his tongue, woefully inadequate for the moment-- but it did not seem Samwise found it so.

The elves shook Sam's hand gracefully, one by one. "I've enough stories to weary every one of you," Sam announced, spreading his hands to encompass them all. "Where shall we find a roof and a sup so I can share them all? Now that I'm off that blasted boat, I think I could eat again."

Gandalf laughed. "Well-said, Samwise. There is a lodging for us in the city, and food is waiting. I am certain we would all eagerly hear what you have to say."

They rode slowly so the walkers could keep up until they reached their horses, and then they picked up the pace, jogging easily along. Frodo nudged his pony up next to Sam's, still feeling strangely shy.

"You have a grandson," Sam nodded to Elrond, who rode next to him. "Eldarion, they call him: a fine strapping lad, kingly enough to suit his lineage."

"I have seen this in my mind," Elrond answered, "but I would hear all you have to tell, also. It is not possible to know more than a hint of what passes in the lands beyond the bending of the world."

Sam obliged him, spinning tales of Minas Tirith even as they reached their lodging, dismounted, and went inside-- tales of Arwen and Aragorn and their reign, and Merry and Pippin also. Frodo listened, feeling somewhat lost and strangely empty, for Rose and Elanor and all Sam's family were woven into them. When Frodo shifted, Sam reached out to cover his hand, and Frodo eased for a moment, but Sam hardly looked at him, never losing the thread of his tale.

Even as he listened, Frodo felt Gandalf's eyes on him, and the hollow feeling in his belly deepened. He freed his hand at length, but put aside his food untouched, and sipped his wine-- like light made liquid, that wine, from the vineyards of Yavanna-- and listened to Sam describing the vintages of the Shire that surpassed it.

"Mayor Gamgee," he said softly when a lull fell in the talk, surprised to hear the words fall from his lips, but feeling their rightness ever since Gandalf had spoken them. "Has your journey wearied you?"

"No, not a bit of it," Sam said stoutly. "At least, nothing a fine talk with old friends won't mend." And he was off again, rambling on with great contentment as the Sun sank low and the stars rose. Frodo could hear the Elves and Maiar singing in the streets to greet them, and after a time, when Sam paused for a gulp of wine, Frodo rose.

"I want a bit of air before bed, and a walk under the stars of Elbereth in the gardens," he said, and bowed to each of the Elves in turn, and to Sam last. "I suppose I shall see you tomorrow."

"Should I come?" Sam's glance back at his table companions showed him torn, and Frodo managed to dredge a reassuring smile from his fading store of poise. There once would have been no question that Sam would accompany him, but now? He did not want to leave his tales, and in truth, Frodo found himself in desperate need of solitude.

"Please, don't trouble yourself on my account." He bowed again and made his escape, evading Gandalf's eye-- and therefore missing Gandalf's restraining hand rising to settle on Samwise's shoulder.

The gardens were cooler than the lamp-lit room, illuminated by the soft radiance of the stars. As bright as the light of a full moon, the starlight seemed, shimmering on boughs that sighed in the ocean breeze, their clusters of leaves swaying and rustling, the paths beneath them dappled in lambent pale light and fearless shadow.

Frodo felt cool, dewy turf alternate with the lingering heat of sun-soaked stone under his feet as he walked, the perfume of a hundred spring blossoms fragrant but unnoticed in his nostrils. His hands were stuck deep in his pockets, and he did not look up at the stars, even as the Elves and Maiar raised a song of gladness to greet them. He wandered, seeking a bench or seat tucked away from gentle eyes, but wherever he went, the song gathered, swelling in corners and under eaves, filling the night with its living breath.

It was a wondrous song and fair, and it was well-known to him, but it pierced his heart with bleak sorrow and loneliness to hear the joy in it. Tonight he wanted none of that, so he turned his path aside and downwards, towards the sea.

As he walked verses formed and clung inside his mind, scattered fragments as faint but as familiar as if he had heard them before, but only once, in a dream. They tasted fair and terrible; to hear them the better, he left the city and wandered along the shore, lips moving with the words, weaving loss into song.

_My hands were torn and my knees worn,_  
_and years were heavy upon my back,_  
_when the rain in my face took a salt taste,_  
_and I smelled the smell of sea-wrack._

_Birds came sailing, mewing, wailing;_  
_I heard voices in cold caves,_  
_seals barking, and rocks snarling,_  
_and in spout-holes the gulping of waves._  
_Winter came fast; into a mist I passed,_  
_to land's end my years I bore;_  
_snow was in the air, ice in my hair,_  
_darkness was lying on the last shore...._

At length Frodo found himself upon the quay, where the boat that had brought Sam rode the wavelets, moored safe. The gang-board had been lifted, and the sails hung in heavy folds. Frodo passed the boat steadily and went to the end of the quay, where two tall pillars stood empty, awaiting some great ship gone afar. He sat down upon the stones where his own feet had first touched the shores of Valinor, and looked out across the Sea, which had sundered him from his Sam.

His eyes strained themselves at the horizon, where the dark line of the Sea met sky, the brisk wind raising pale crests of sparkling foam on the water. He had the absurd feeling that perhaps, if he waited patiently enough, another boat might come, slipping silently through the waves and on to the Straight Road, filled with merry, singing Elves and the golden-haired, shy-smiling Sam of his memory, come to find him. But this, he understood now, was a lie he had spun for himself and woven into his dreams until it pierced them all like threads of molten gold, as cruel and pitiless in its false hope as any bleak and vicious lie that had once been rooted deep through him by the malicious will of Sauron.

He had once had that Sam, and the golden future of warmth and love and the Shire-- both of those things within the very palm of his hand, and had tossed them away forever.

Frodo felt his chest hitch thickly, and he covered his mouth with his hand to hide his grief from the waves, tasting salt there as he bit down on the soft pad below his thumb, sinking his teeth until the pain of the bite pushed aside the agony of his heart, then biting harder, until he tasted copper, but nothing would make the anguish leave him completely, and so he let his hand fall, cradling it against his chest. The Sam of his memory was dead and gone, and Frodo himself had sundered them. Would that he could sink his teeth deeper, tear out this pain, and fling it away from him into fire!

"It is gone, and all is dark and empty," he said, and his stomach clenched like a knotted fist, and he struggled onto his knees, clinging to the pillar as he retched into the Sea.

When he was empty of wine, his throat burning with acid and his tongue sour, Frodo lay drained on the quay, looking up at the stars, without the will to move his arm from where it lay dangling over the edge, a single drop of blood trickling down to the end of his finger, like a thread of chill in the wind.

It came to him as the waves soughed on the beach, never pausing in their patient, timeless march, that there was a duty before him, one that would demand all his strength-- to go on without everything he had denied himself: Sam, the Shire, a family, a life of his own. To endure, and continue. This time, Frodo must not fail.

He drew himself up after a time and marked how far the stars had wheeled in the sky, then scrubbed away the blood from his hand. Drawing his shoulders straight, he climbed into the city.

*****

Morning dawned not long after he lay down in his soft bed, but it mattered little; he would not have found rest had he lain for hours. He arose when he heard the household stir, and went down to the table, where the board was laid with fresh, hot bread and butter, and golden honeycomb, with strawberries and cream in bowls. He ensured the best portion was still to be given to Sam, and sat down at his own plate, forcing himself to chew and swallow so as not to offend his hosts.

Sam arrived soon after, still blinking a bit; he came to Frodo and put one gnarled hand on his shoulder. His touch startled Frodo, who looked down at his hand for a moment without recognition, and then looked up quickly to meet Sam's smile, answering it with an effort not to seem false. He felt shame that it took effort, but he recovered by serving the berries and fussing over the dishes. Before Sam finished, Frodo excused himself to check on the readiness of their horses-- and found Gandalf on the step with his head bent, absorbed over a carved wooden pipe.

"Pipe-weed!" Frodo's eyes grew round at the scent of smoke.

"There's a pouch and a pipe for you, too, if you had stayed long enough last night to find out." Gandalf tipped his head and blew a ragged smoke ring. "He wants to try growing it here. He's brought a pack full of cuttings and seeds to try."

"We'd better get him back to the hole, then, so he can plant them. Bilbo will be beside himself with waiting." Frodo fidgeted a little.

"And you, Frodo?" Gandalf's glance was quick and keen.

Frodo felt his shoulders sag a little as he sighed. "He's not what I expected."

"Precisely what did you expect, Frodo? You left him to take your place as Mayor and master of Bag End. I rather think he's made a good job of it, all things considered. He's a bit more provincial than you and Bilbo, certainly, but he was hardly to the manor born." Gandalf took a draw of smoke, then coughed and frowned at his pipe. "I've lost the habit, I'm afraid, if not the skill." He passed over the pipe and Frodo inhaled the smoke carefully, warned by his example.

It tasted bitter and sweet at once, and was husky and sharp and smooth and harsh at the same time; it exploded onto his tongue with a thousand flavors of home. Frodo's eyes slid shut and he choked back a sob-- his favorite blend, a memory drawn so sharp he was almost certain that if he opened his eyes, he would find himself back in the Shire. He lowered his head, fingers shaking as he took the pipe from his mouth, and stared down at his toes, curled into the soft green grass.

A hand fell on the small of his back and slid around his waist; without opening his eyes he knew it was Sam. He squeezed them tight shut and breathed, the smoke from the bowl wafting up under his nostrils and the grass warm under his feet. If he could, he would have lived in this moment forever, hung poised between present and past, but a gull's mewing cry echoed and broke the spell.

"It smells of home," he said, very low in his throat, tears threatening to choke him.

"I thought a bit of smoke would go down well after so long without." Sam's hand was firm and steady on Frodo's waist. "Don't smoke it too fast, or you'll remember what it's like to be a lad again."

Frodo nodded, half-frozen; Sam's hand on his waist felt like a spot of sunlight, sinking radiant heat into his bones. Following so fast on the heels of the pipe-weed, it was almost more than he could bear. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you, Sam." He mustered a smile and made himself look up to meet Sam's eyes, holding them for a moment before he stepped away and went down the path towards the stable. Ducking inside, he was glad to find himself alone; he put his back against the wall to steady himself and struggled to catch his breath.

He could still feel Sam's touch on him, burning like fire; he had not expected to react so strongly, and in fact had not reacted in quite the same way before when this Sam touched him, but he had been sunk in memory, and for a moment it had been the Sam of his memories who laid hands upon him-- all too like the Sam of his dreams, caressing him as a lover, not greeting him as a friend.

A horse whickered, and one of the Elves answered it with gentle words, near-meaningless syllables. The sound soothed Frodo gradually as he hid there, waiting for his racing heart to slow and his rebellious body to fall silent again. The scent of horses gradually filled his nostrils and eclipsed the pipe-weed, and the cool of the stone helped soothe his treacherous flesh.

He stepped out at last and went to the stalls where the Elves worked, speaking softly to them; they had perhaps half an hour before the horses were ready. He retreated and made this announcement, then escaped to his bedchamber and busied himself gathering his things and making the sleeping couch, which was rather too tall for him to do a good job, but it consumed the remaining time.

"Ready to go?" Frodo was struck by the tone of Sam's voice-- low and gentle, just like the Elf who had calmed the skittish horse. Had Sam always spoken to him so? He could not recall, but the tone rankled, nonetheless.

Frodo drew himself upright gracefully. "Quite," he answered, and took the strap of his pack. "Let's be off, then. Bilbo is waiting." He led the way from the house, pausing only to thank their hosts, and climbed on to his pony, feeling the itch of Sam's thoughtful gaze resting between his shoulder blades every step of the way.

****

The ride was a peaceful one, and a pleasant; they kept the shore on their left and rode over gentle rolling hills on sandy cobbles, then flowering marshes filled with birds and marsh-mallow. The tide was out, and Frodo marked oyster beds and the spouts of buried sea-creatures, which he pointed out to Sam, carefully keeping the conversation going.

"If you say those are fit for eating, I won't gainsay you, but I'm not convinced," Sam admitted when they passed near enough an oyster-bed to look inside the razor-sharp shells and see the grey creatures that lay there, looking pale and drowned. "Though I've heard the men of Minas Tirith say they do wonders for the... constitution." Sam cleared his throat with a hint of disapproval, sounding exactly like his Gaffer.

"I have heard it, too." Gandalf responded, unflappable, when Frodo found no reply. "And I rather think the men of Minas Tirith need nothing of the sort."

"No more they do," Sam nodded emphatically. "Though mayhap at my age, I could stand a few."

Gandalf chuckled, and so did Sam; Frodo managed a smile and said nothing, discomfited by the unexpected turn of the conversation. He had heard no such rumors, or he would have kept his silence-- and perhaps he would have eaten fewer oysters over the years, he thought ruefully, looking out over the pale beach towards the waves.

When they had traversed the tidal marsh, it remained only to pass through the dunes that lay in an irregular, rolling band between the sea and Frodo's sheltered homestead. The Elves had built a narrow boarded walkway across the marshes, and it continued over the sand to ease the passage of horses; it was just wide enough to accommodate the little shaded dog-cart Bilbo used when he made his infrequent journeys to visit with Elrond and his other Elven friends on high days and feast days, which came infrequently throughout the year.

Frodo was glad to see the eave of his and Bilbo's low house appear from behind a dune, overtopped by dune grasses and a few wind-twisted young pines, and sheltering the green that was its scrubby bit of garden. The "smial" was made of wood and plaster, but Elves had piled sand about it, and it looked as though it burrowed properly into the heart of a tall dune. The soil was too sandy for what you might call a proper kitchen garden, but here, any plant that put root to soil seemed to thrive.

A few goats and kids danced nimbly about the dunes, and chickens pecked amidst the pebbles of the path; the arrangement did well enough to suit Bilbo and Frodo. Frodo's weekly trips in to Kortirion provided them with anything else they might need, for there were Elves in Valinor who delighted in husbandry and the tending of plants, and under their skilled hands, enough bounty came forth for everyone to thrive.

Sam took the place in with bright, interested eyes, making no comment, though Frodo knew him well enough to reckon that he thought Frodo would be better served by moving his home back a few hundred ells into the wooded hills, where oaks and elms and beech grew, and fresh green grass. But Frodo liked the sea, and Frodo liked his fishing, and Bilbo was content to indulge him.

There Bilbo sat, waiting at the grayed wooden table they kept beneath a shady eave, shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed anxiously along the path. He reached for his stick and pushed himself upright-- an old habit, perhaps not strictly necessary given his fine health, but it pleased him to remain as he wished.

"Mister Bilbo Baggins, as I live and breathe!" Sam heeled his pony forward with delight. Frodo noticed, with wry amusement, that Bilbo apparently still merited his honorific, for now at least. "You've done a sight better than beating the Old Took, now, haven't you!"

"Samwise Gamgee!" Bilbo crowed, and lifted his stick to jab towards the path. "I've told Frodo you'd come all these sixty years, and here you are, with as many grey hairs as me, into the bargain!"

"A few more grey hairs than you, I think!" Sam threw back his head and laughed, sliding off his pony and leading it forward, slinging the reins around a post. "For I haven't started losing any yet!"

"You've grown a cheeky tongue, you have!" It didn't seem to bother Bilbo one bit; he beamed at Sam and held out his arms, and the two embraced. "Ninety looks well on you, lad-- for lad you'll always be in my eyes, though you turn a hundred and twenty!"

Sam chuckled. "It takes a cheeky tongue to manage the mayor's job, if I may say."

"I daresay it does, and I daresay you've done a fine job as Mayor, too." Bilbo held Sam back and gazed at him with pleasure. "Frodo, lad, Gandalf. Welcome. There's a good supper ready in the kitchen-- butter and bread, and plenty of fresh-caught fish and apples. I can still turn my hand to the baking, when I must!"

"I think I shall come in, and stay a day or two," Gandalf agreed mildly. "Shadowfax will see the other horses back to Kortirion, and return when I need him."

"Shadowfax! I was almost forgetting." Bilbo stepped forward, leaning on his stick and fishing in his pocket, coming up with an apple. "I've a reputation to keep up, you know! I won't have it said I don't keep a hospitable table for all my guests!"

Shadowfax neighed, a sound like laughter, then delicately lifted the apple from Bilbo's palm and crunched it between his teeth. "And there are oats, if you'll have them," Bilbo continued. "Frodo, fetch the oats out, lad; I've forgotten to bring them."

Frodo did, and he poured them in to the two shallow mangers that stood under the eave. Shadowfax led the horses forward and they ate, and without being asked, Sam went to the well and hauled buckets of water for them. The Elves said it was a bit brackish, so close to the sea, but it seemed as good as wine to Bilbo and Frodo.

Sam also helped unsaddle the ponies, and carried one of the heavy leather saddles inside, following Frodo, who carried the other. They set them upon their stands in the tack room just off the hall, Frodo watching as Sam's eyes swept the place with keen curiosity, resting first on white shells and then on delicate branched corals that Frodo had found and brought in to put on shelves for himself and Bilbo to look at.

"I never saw such." Sam reached forward and lifted a delicate, slotted disk with a fair pattern of fronds embossed on the center, arranged like the rays of a star. "Do you find these in the sea?"

"Washed up on the sands," Frodo explained, feeling as though his tongue had grown awkward and thick in his mouth. "After a high tide."

"And this other strange stuff, too?" Sam tested the point of a branch of coral with a questing fingertip.

"It grows under the sea, in great ridges-- reefs. Storms break off bits and wash them ashore."

"Does it storm here often?"

"When Ulmo or Ossë wills it." Frodo shifted his feet; he had been in a few audiences with some of the Valar since his arrival, but the only Vala or Maia he felt truly comfortable near was Gandalf. As Sam had once commented about Galadriel, the Valar made Frodo feel like he 'hadn't got nothing on,' especially the ones that didn't choose to wear bodies made of flesh, like Gandalf did. "Every natural thing has its season, and works to the glory of Iluvatar. Even storms are beautiful. Elves come to warn us when the storms will be bad enough we need to go inland."

"A good thing." Sam lifted a shell and ran his finger along the delicate satiny pink of its inner lip. "I've seen snails, and I reckon these beasts must be something like that, to look at the shells they leave, but I'd hate to see what such a snail would do to my garden!"

"They live under the sea as well, and don't survive for long on land." Frodo fidgeted. "Shall we go out?"

Sam looked aside to him, the shell still cradled in his callus-horned fingers, a keen look that penetrated to the heart of Frodo's discomfort. "I won't bite you," he said, very softly. "For all that the years have weathered me, I'm still your Sam."

Frodo reddened, his face heating with shame. "We shall have to get to know one another again," he said politely, feeling the words for the stiff and awkward things they were.

"I mean to do that," Sam said, and set the shell down with care. "But there's time for that in plenty, I'm guessing. For now, let's go out, and I'll give Bilbo his pipe-weed. That ought to please him!"

"That it will," Frodo agreed, and followed him out.


	2. Choices

They met Gandalf and Bilbo halfway in, and together the four of them went in to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh bread made Frodo's mouth water. The fish was not actually done, as Bilbo had held it back in order to serve hot, but a few branches on the fire made for a nice, hot oven. In short order they had the fish on to bake, garnished with fresh herbs and wedges of a tart yellow fruit Sam had never seen before, and insisted on sampling, though it puckered his mouth with surprise.

"Tell us about your Rosie, and all about your children," Bilbo asked eagerly, his tobacco-pouch close at hand, where he could reach out and touch it when he liked, as though to reassure himself it was truly there.

"Of course," Sam agreed, and began listing children and grandchildren until Frodo's head fairly spun. He hung back, tending the fish and listening, feeling unnecessary.

"Here, now, let me help." Sam interrupted himself in mid-sentence and rose as Frodo reached to the oven door, folded cloth in hand. "You've hurt yourself, and I was hardly noticing."

Frodo yielded his place, left hand wrapped around his right to hide the telltale marks of his own teeth from Gandalf and Bilbo, feeling a bit of ill-grace as he did so. Sam handled the towels and the hot pan with expert ease, and Frodo felt his mouth tighten a little; was there anything the Mayor didn't do well, and hadn't practiced daily for the past sixty years, in the welcoming bosom of his family? He felt churlish as he took his seat, and refused to meet the quick slide of Gandalf's eyes. Perhaps the food would lighten his heart.

It did not; Bilbo's joyful chatter and obvious enjoyment of Sam's tales only emphasized Frodo's own stiff responses, and he eventually fell silent, letting the others carry the conversation. He satisfied himself with watching them-- Gandalf's merry, twinkling eyes, Bilbo's visible excitement, and Sam's contented demeanor. Sam talked himself hoarse, and Frodo cleared the table, taking care to use his left hand to take the plates, washing them quietly at the sink.

It was not, he reflected to himself as he stared down into the soapy water, that he resented Sam's changed status, not precisely. Frodo would not have had Sam come into his home as a guest and expected him to act like a servant, and he had not-- each time he had lent a hand, it was because he was needed, and he simply took his fair share of the work.

Frodo could not, in fact, honestly name what (if anything) was wrong with Sam, when he questioned himself in the silence of his heart. He had expected to warm to Sam just as Bilbo had, and to feel the same easy, pleased camaraderie that everyone else in the smial was now feeling. That Frodo did not feel it pointed to a problem elsewhere-- something was, perhaps, wrong with Frodo himself.

Either way, it did not matter. He knew his course.

Frodo rattled about with the dishes and fetched a bottle of wine, letting each guest pour as much as he wanted for himself, and resuming his work without speaking, drowned in thought. If he was perfectly honest with himself, his dissatisfaction lay in the knowledge that this Sam was not "his" Sam, not the Sam who might have been Frodo's, and somehow he could not overcome his sense of disorientation and unhappiness when hearing tales of this Sam's life.

Perhaps, he thought as he wiped water from the baking pan to keep it from rusting, it was that what he thought of as "his" Sam was not what Sam meant when he said the words; perhaps "his" Sam had never truly existed.

Except, perhaps, once-- once in Mordor.

Frodo's fingers tightened around the handle of the pan, going bloodless white; it was a memory that usually came to him only in dreams, dreams that left him shaken and sleepless, his bed a mess of sweat and other fluids. He stared down at his missing finger, not quite feeling his teeth worry his lip; he had never spoken or written a word about that moment to another living soul, though to be sure, Gandalf would know.

For all he knew, it had been his imagination, or perhaps a deception of the Ring upon his weakened mind, though sixty years of agonized inspection had not shown it as such; the Ring was not accustomed to use anything of pleasantness in its manipulations, preferring insidious venom and, as they approached the Mountain, brute force.

"Frodo! Leave those and join us, lad." Bilbo's brows had pinched close with concern, and Frodo obeyed, slipping into his seat, only then noticing that his lip hurt and his hand pained him where soap and water had irritated the marks of his own teeth.

It was late before they found their beds, Sam exclaiming with delight over the room Frodo had arranged for him, airy and cozy at once, with a round window that overlooked the gardens and could be opened to let a gentle breeze come in and lift the curtains. Within the room, Frodo had placed anything he thought might please Sam: mementos of Bag End, natural curiosities from the woods, and a few pieces of driftwood stood arranged on shelves, and there was a dresser and a glass, and a small wardrobe.

Sam carried his packs in from the hall and put one of them on the coverlet, looking about with pleasure; he immediately unpacked and placed his possessions in the dresser-- clothing, a few books, and a sheaf of papers that he handled very tenderly, which appeared to contain records of his family, including portraits and locks of hair.

Frodo hesitated in the doorway, unsure of the dictates of politeness; he still had to show Sam the way to the privy before he could retire.

"Would you like to see?" Sam asked softly, and without awaiting an answer, he tenderly untied the cord that bound the packet, spreading the things out upon the dresser top. Reluctantly, Frodo stepped inside the door, constrained by politeness to look.

"That's my Rose, and there's little Elanor-- proud as she can be that of all the lot of them only she ever laid eyes on you, when you tended her as a babe." Sam's callused thumb stroked gently over the margin of the page. "And here are the rest." He read each name aloud as he paged through the portraits. Keeping his polite smile fixed upon his face, though the struggle grew harder as the display stretched, Frodo counted each one. There were thirteen of Sam's own children, and a number of nieces and nephews and grandchildren besides.

At last they came to the bottom of the stack. "You must tell me all about each one," Frodo said, feeling it was expected of him. But he did not mean the words as he knew he should. Something terrible and empty was growing inside him, and had been ever since Sam unbound the packet with care that bespoke his love for its contents-- a horrible feeling, at once bleak and desolate and also threaded through with crimson threads of a strange, hot emotion that could be nothing but jealousy.

Oblivious to Frodo's inner battle, Sam nodded eagerly. "I've more tales than we can tell in an evening-- far more," he agreed. "But we'd best be abed soon, for I've all manner of cuttings in my pack, and they won't wait forever."

Sam re-tied the packet and tucked in a drawer, then bent to his other sack and checked its contents. At length he straightened, knuckling his back. "Mayhap tomorrow we can find a bit of ground nearer the woods, where I can plant a few of them. Just the ones that need it worst, at least for now. It will take time to make a proper garden, and I'll need a beast for plowing up the turf, if one is to be had."

"There is plenty of ground within a short walk that should be well-suited to anything you've brought. As for plowing, the Elves have their ways," Frodo tried on a smile, and found it sat nervously upon his lips, feeling false. "There are Maiar who can sing the weeds away; when they sing, the grasses hear where to grow and where to leave the land fallow, and they obey. Gandalf is sure to have summoned the singers for you; he mentioned your cuttings already. The Maiar have a way of knowing where and when there will be a need, even before Bilbo and I know ourselves. There are shovels, too, and we'll find no lack of Elves willing to help with the tilth, until you have it well in hand-- and after, as needed." Frodo tried leaning on the doorframe, trying to seem at ease.

"I've never thought to picture Elves hard at work in a garden, much less my own," Sam chuckled. "But I reckon there's not much other way of growing enough to keep a table for three healthy hobbits. And even Elves like to eat, whether they have to or no."

"It's true. They don't often eat flesh, but they do enjoy bread and fruits and vegetables-- and wine." Frodo straightened. "And they even have privies, though perhaps you wouldn't credit it, having lived on lembas as long as you did."

"I wondered about that when we stayed in Lórien." Sam's eyes crinkled as he smiled, his eyes warm. "But I reckoned they must-- they ate well enough, and they knew enough about the business to provide one for us, at any rate, with all the necessaries."

"Well, Bilbo and I certainly have one." Frodo gestured down the hall. "And there's a chamber pot beneath your bed."

"I'll fetch a light." Sam picked up his room's little fish-oil lamp and lit it from the one that burned in the hall.

Frodo led Sam down the hall, uncomfortably conscious of how near Sam followed, keeping Frodo close within the circle of light cast by his lamp. "It's just out the back and down a turn of path; we often keep fires lit inside because of the wind and the damp, but the weather is mild enough that even Bilbo's joints don't suffer from the cold for most of the year." He pointed down the path, where the square corner of the privy shed could be seen, dark against the shoulder of a dune.

"That's a mercy." Sam flexed his hands. "I've had a touch of the rheumatics myself now and again, though I hadn't noticed them since I set foot on the boat."

"Perhaps you won't, here. I'll leave a lamp burning in the hall; it should last through the night." His task done, Frodo felt terribly weary, and badly in need of quiet time by himself. "If I can help you with anything you need, just call."

"I shouldn't have a need." Sam sighed and tipped his head back, looking up at the stars. "It's good to be here, with you again." His voice fell low, soft and deep with emotion. "Like coming home, or finding a treasure lost long ago."

Frodo's tongue froze in his mouth, and he stood still, his heart thudding oddly in his chest. "I'm glad," he said at last, feeling the silence begin to stretch towards discomfort. He reached out, unable to summon better words, and let his hand fall on Sam's shoulder-- the right hand, he noticed too late, but it was dark.

Sam's hard hand covered his and squeezed it gently; he turned his face towards Frodo's fingers, and the starlight caught in his hair. Frodo stood caught, dazedly noticing the soft gleam of the rising Moon gathering on the horizon behind the sea as Sam's head dipped, and his lips, faintly rough and dry, brushed the back of Frodo's hand, and then Sam turned his hand over and kissed his palm, gentle and tender. Frodo made his fingers close around Sam's and squeeze them in response.

"Good night, Sam," Frodo heard his voice come too high and quick. "Rest well."

He fled to his bedroom and slumped onto his chair, weak and trembling, when he had closed the door. He would not sleep this night; he must not, or the dreams would follow.

He went to his desk and took up his quill, resigned.

Dawn found him hollow-eyed and ink-stained, lifting grainy eyes to greet the Sun-- and the sound of Sam's whistling, an unfamiliar note that trailed down the corridor to join the clatter of Bilbo's usual breakfast preparations.

The smells that ensued made Frodo's nostrils twitch with hunger; he slipped out quietly to visit the privy and splash a bit of well-water on his face in hopes of disguising his weariness. The morning breeze quickly dried his face, and he covered a yawn behind his hand as he stood and faced the sea, slate-grey and rolling in waist-high breakers on to the beach.

On mornings like this, when the surf had been a little higher than its wont, he might find a bit of shell on the beach, though likely nothing of great interest. As he walked, he often took along a few of Bilbo's fresh hot scones drenched in butter, wrapped in a napkin, and ate them as he strolled along and filled his bag with curiosities. He liked to collect the driftwood and shells that now lined each tiny garden plot and kept the goats at bay-- on a good day, he might find a lost gem or a bit of sea-glass, its edges worn soft and smooth by the hissing waves and sand.

"Did you rest well, Frodo?" Gandalf emerged from the hole, stooping to clear the lip of the door and straightening with a low sigh. The Sun chose that moment to peek from behind the dunes, its rays softly golden, lighting the dunes and the ocean with lambent radiance and making each grain of sand sparkle. The beach shimmered as the wind lifted grains of sand and sent them whispering along to drift and curl in narrow wavelets.

"I was writing," Frodo answered, truthfully but not entirely helpfully.

Gandalf made no comment, laying his hand on Frodo's shoulder, a gesture that warmed and comforted him. "Will you go to watch Sam make his garden?"

"Would I be of aid?" Frodo shifted his feet, and he and Gandalf strolled towards the table at the side of the smial. "I can't imagine there will be much of use for me to do."

"Sam would find your presence welcome."

"Then I will go." Frodo shifted uncomfortably.

"He would not have you go if you have no wish to be there."

"Someone will need to pack a lunch and serve it, I suppose-- though the Elves will bring their own, he and Bilbo will be wanting theirs come midday, and I haven't done my share of the work this morning, to be sure." Frodo felt as though he were walking delicately, as though on broken glass, not quite avoiding all its sharpest edges.

Gandalf sat back and fumbled for pipe and pouch, but satisfied himself with unsealing the pouch and inhaling the pithy fragrance that emerged. "Do you wish Samwise had not come?"

Frodo floundered, unsure himself of the answer. "I have waited for him for sixty years. He said himself we would have to get to know one another again," he ventured carefully.

"Bilbo knows him well enough already." Gandalf examined a pinch of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger.

Frodo felt his mouth pinch tight; he looked out at the sea without speaking.

"Samwise earned his place on the ship that brought him when he resisted the temptation of the Ring," Gandalf observed. "But I think he may come to regret the honor, if he believes you would not have him here."

"Then I did not earn my place?" Frodo felt his anger kindle. "For I did not resist the Ring."

"But you did, for longer than many of the strong and the wise could have done, or would have even dreamed possible." Narya glinted on Gandalf's finger as he sealed the pouch again. "To this day I regret placing you in such a terrible position, Frodo. But you know as well as I that no other choice was given me, if I would see Sauron defeated and the Ring destroyed." Gandalf tucked the pouch away, his finger caressing the smooth clay bowl of the pipe Sam had brought him, before he put it away also, in a sheltered pocket. He drew a deep, slow breath, his face careworn and troubled.

"Frodo, your very strength and stubbornness, those traits in your character that you brought to bear so nobly in carrying the Ring and resisting it, were the sources of your value to the world then-- but they have also served as the sources of your pain, when applied in the wrong way, to other purposes and feelings." Gandalf looked at Frodo solemnly. "Will you bring them to bear now, refusing joy and love as though they too are evil?"

Frodo shivered in the warm sunlight, dipping his gaze into the shadow of his own face and turning aside from Gandalf's kind regard.

"I know no other way to be." His voice crackled, hoarse and dry. He rose and went to the post that supported the arched eave, feeling rough splinters prickle at his fingertips, which he ran along the rough-cut pole, up and down, heedless of the few sharp prickles that slid under his skin. "But then, you of all beings would know that, Gandalf; I have always done only as I must."

"I believe you feel you speak truly," Gandalf said heavily. "But we create our own limitations, Frodo, when we believe thus. I have seen too many mortals live imprisoned inside walls of their own making, devouring the fruits of their own folly. Think of the madness and the pride of Denethor, Frodo, who chose to burn on the eve of victory, for he saw only defeat-- or the return of his King, which he could not countenance. His pride led to his destruction, even as he told himself that he did only what he must."

"And so I inhabit a prison of my own making?" Frodo choked out a laugh, more in pain than good humor. "Then you would have it that I chose death for my mother and my father, and that I wished to carry the Ring to Mordor."

"I would have you know that you have freely chosen your own responses to those things that were not your choosing," Gandalf returned. "And I have spoken the wisdom your heart needs now, so that you may choose the best responses you can.

"That has always been my duty and my honor, both as your friend and as your guide. I am a counselor. I will not go further to influence you, Frodo, nor will any of the Valar; if we were to do so, it would break your mind and reshape you to our will rather than your own-- just as the Ring tried to do. We are not evil. There will be no magic, now or ever, to heal you-- unless it comes from inside yourself."

"I thought I was healed." Frodo clutched at the post, desperate and aching, flayed open.

"Did you?" Gandalf's voice sharpened. "Did you truly believe that being healed in body would also heal your mind?"

Frodo kept his face turned away, reeling in the sunlight, feeling it treacherously bright, revealing him for all eyes to see that could.

"Your spirit still shines inside you," Gandalf said softly. "But beware your pride, Frodo. It has betrayed you more than once; it was this pride that moved you to punish yourself by running from Sam's side, by running from your own life, and to this place. I did not read your thoughts to know this, Frodo. You revealed your mind when you asked if I thought you did not deserve your entry upon the Straight Road; you do not believe you deserve it-- you alone, among all who have known and judged you!"

Frodo tried to breathe steadily, but his pulse rushed in his ears with the hissing sough of the sea, and the bright Sun dazzled his eyes.

Gandalf rose, his face stern, and moved to Frodo's side, his voice falling softly on Frodo's ears, compassionate but unyielding. "You believe that all your resistance was worth nothing, since it failed you in the end. Now you seem to believe you may only show your worth by resisting Samwise, and denying yourself all the comforts he offers, as well as the pleasures you have used as a torment to your mind and body during the long years since you left him."

Gandalf sighed at length, when Frodo did not speak. "I have said enough, if not too much." He sounded old for the first time that Frodo could remember since arriving in Valinor, old and sad. "I too hoped his coming would show you how you can be healed, when Valimar itself was not enough. But as I feared, it has not. You must heal yourself, Frodo. Take this day to be alone; Bilbo and Sam have made preparations in plenty for their noon meal."

Gandalf stepped back at length, on to the path towards the smial. "Based on what you choose to do now, you will soon have other choices-- and Sam will, also. Choose with care, old friend."

He went down the path, and moments later the door closed softly behind him, leaving Frodo to endure the misery of his own mind.


	3. Mordor

Having no wish to endure Sam's and Bilbo's questions amidst his present state of discomposure, Frodo hastily took himself off to his room as soon as Gandalf had vanished, trusting in the old wizard to make a satisfactory excuse-- doubtless a true one, involving Frodo's failure to sleep the previous night. He fidgeted there until he saw Bilbo's dog-cart depart, Sam good-naturedly taking his turn in the traces, where Frodo usually found himself yoked. The weight of the cart did not seem to trouble him as he drew it forth on the smooth wooden path provided by the Elves.

Once they were gone, Frodo expected to relax, perhaps even to sleep, but he found himself bored and restless, desperate to escape Gandalf's words, which still echoed in his mind. His normal haunts along the beach proved unequal to the task of distraction, and so he found himself cutting across the dunes, a hot and gritty scramble, and through a band of marsh into the rolling grasslands beyond. There the sucking mud gave way to firm turf, and Frodo could leave clouds of gnats and sand flies behind him, making his roundabout way through climbing hills to the edge of the wood that lay at the feet of the mountains.

He wondered, not quite idly, where the Elves and the Maiar might have chosen to put Sam's field. He knew where he would have chosen: there was a perfect site in a gentle valley between two ridges near the wood where a spring rose, not far from Frodo's own beachside homestead. He directed his steps there, drawn by curiosity in spite of himself. The valley there held young, strong trees, and both banks were firm; the lower one, which rose farthest from the spring, seemed earthen, and looked ideal for tunneling. He and Bilbo had considered it for a time when they settled here, but Frodo preferred the shore. Still, Sam had no need for a smial, so perhaps that was not where they had chosen to put Sam's field--

Frodo blinked as he topped the final rise and found the field spread below, dotted with the tall forms of Elves and Maiar. The valley was much changed, with a smial already cut into the bank he had considered, and a springhouse ready-raised over the end of the sparkling stream, with steps cut in the bank, leading up to it. Elves and Maiar stood about the field, where grasses waved and twined, receding. The Elves sang, a soft chant that he could not hear, but he could feel it through the soles of his feet now that he stood still. Bilbo's dog-cart stood parked by the smial door; there was no sign of him.

Sam stood next to one tall Maia with a river of golden hair; doubtless she was the leader of the song. Frodo realized that he was exposed to their sight on the ridge and lay on his belly; after all, he told himself, he was weary and in need of rest.

The field was squared at the corners, though Frodo knew that was only to suit Sam's hobbit sensibilities, accustomed to plowing with a team of ponies or an ox. The Elves preferred sweeping arcs and curves, when left to their own devices.

Even the grass in the yard between the door and field had already been told to grow short; Frodo knew Sam would be pleased to learn he need never cut grass again, unless he wished it. There were elegantly shaped and spacious bare places spread about the smial, and pathways between and about them that gleamed with shining white stones. The bare patches, Frodo realized as he looked on, were clearly intended for flowerbeds and banks of herbs.

This had all the markings of a cozy, well-appointed farm, thoughtfully planned, and Frodo knew the preparations must have begun before ever Sam set foot ashore. The Valar always knew what would be required, and often kept their own counsel as they went about it.

It seemed that one of the choices Gandalf had foretold was now laid out plain for Frodo to see: Sam would choose to live apart from Frodo. Frodo blew a ladybird beetle off his lips as its tiny feet tickled them. Relief and anguish choked his throat together; he did not know which was the greater.

The tall Maia set her hand on Sam's forehead and blessed him, then gently pushed him forth; Frodo watched as he went about, Elves following. They dug as he bade, and carried basins of water in his wake as he went about gently tucking the plants and seeds from his pack into their new homes. Frodo watched the cuttings and seedlings sprout, flower, and spread behind Sam, long weeks of growing quickened by the Maia's song. Soon it would seem as if they had lived there always.

More Elves joined Sam and tenderly placed plants of their own, which grew likewise; Frodo watched as Sam straightened and heard his cry of surprise and delight to see the garden spread out before him, as tall and green as it might not have been until midsummer, rows extending all its length, holding cabbages and potatoes and cucumbers and the tall pale green spikes and broad flat leaves of tobacco-- there would be pipe-weed to replace the contents of his pouch when it emptied.

Far to one side, young trees pushed tall brown limbs tipped with green shoots towards the sky; the next year, Frodo knew, they would bear fruits so heavy their slender limbs would groan under the weight and need propping. Always in this valley there would be a bounty of everything, both from those plants brought by Sam and those provided by the Elves. There would even be a vineyard, and Sam could brew wine; Elves drove posts for the grapes as he watched, and strung them with fine filaments for the vines to climb upon.

Such a wide field, so varied and intertwined, would be far too much for one or even three hobbits to tend, were it not for the song of the Maia. Her thought would linger to keep weeds and pests far from the plants, and make them grow strong and healthy, without blight or stain. Rain and Sun would fall here in measure. Sam's own skill and the occasional help of the Elves would see to the rest. The mild winters would be a trouble only for crops that disliked the cold, but those fruits and vegetables might be brought from other parts of the land. It was the way of things here that there was little one need ask for.

Now that Sam had come, Frodo understood, there would be even less to ask. And for any gifts Sam would receive, he could offer useful ones in return. Frodo felt a flutter of shame; too many times all he had to offer his hosts in exchange for their graciousness was his thanks, companionship, or shells and tokens gathered from the shore.

He slipped away before the singing was finished; he could feel the peace of the Maia's song lying heavy in his limbs, bringing the siren-call of sleep along with it.

He arrived home with barely enough energy for a short dip in the sea to sluice the marsh-mud from his legs and rinse the itchy grass-dust from his neck. When he had finished, he went in and threw himself on his bed, where he slept restlessly, a fitful drowse, until the presence of another hobbit in the smial wakened him.

Frodo stirred groggily, gazing up at the ceiling, which lay in dim shadow. Outside the evening was falling and the sea had dimmed to a deep slate, broken only by the pale shimmering foam of the waves as they broke on the beach.

He rose, his stomach rumbling to remind him that he had not yet broken his fast for the day. He went in to the kitchen, which was still and dark. Frowning, Frodo bent and blew upon the banked fire, adding twigs and branches until he had a nice blaze going, and then put the kettle on.

There were cold loaves left from Bilbo's baking, and a few scones in a pan, made fresh just that morning. Frodo spread butter on half a scone and ate it as he brewed tea. On a regular day, he would have caught fish or gathered shellfish for supper, or perhaps they would have caught and baked a chicken, one that had grown too sly about hiding its nest amidst the dunes. But there were eggs and cheese and cured pork in the cold storage, and the goats had been milked before Bilbo and Sam set out. Better yet, Bilbo always kept various sweet cakes and fruit tarts on hand, so they would be set for supper at least.

Frodo went in to the hall, meaning to go down cellar to fetch back a slab of bacon, his cares half-forgotten in the urgency of his hunger, but as he passed the bathing-room, even the gnawing emptiness in his stomach faded to forgetfulness, and he hung fire outside the door.

Sam stood within, naked and alone, beside a tub of steaming water. He held a wet cloth in his hand, wiping away the worst of the garden soil before climbing into his bath. The fire was lit, and it picked out the curves and lines of his body in gleaming gold.

Old he might be, but amazingly well-preserved-- though likely not from the effects of the Ring. Frodo marveled; even at ninety, Sam had not yet truly begun to decay. Nor had he gone to flesh while sitting in the mayor's seat, like old Wil Flourdumpling. His sturdy, compact body mingled muscle and sinew, speaking of a lifetime spent at hard and steady labor. His skin had loosened a bit and his hair was white, but those were the only signs of age that lay upon him.

Frodo throttled a whimper in his throat, gazing in desperate longing at the muscled columns of Sam's sturdy thighs, stretched taut as he bent to wash his calves and feet. The pale curves of his bottom were half-towards Frodo, and Frodo could see the stretch and play of muscle in Sam's shoulder and arm, even as he watched the ripple of more in Sam's calves, his whole body gleaming in shades of firelight and shadow.

Sam straightened slowly, and his sturdy body captured Frodo's eye; grizzled with white hair, it was as strong and well-made as the rest of him, with hard muscle across the chest, and his sweet, delightfully soft hobbit-belly lay beneath, shadowing--

Frodo was certain he made a low, helpless sound as his eyes fastened themselves on the expanse of skin that lay below Sam's gently rounded belly, but it did not seem to matter. Sam had already sensed his presence and was turning fully towards him, slow and careful, as though Frodo were a wild creature he hesitated to frighten.

Though hobbit lads occasionally shared their bathing chambers, and Frodo had more than once shared one with Sam, he had always averted his eyes from Sam politely before their journey, and he had not had the opportunity to look during or after. He had never satisfied his curiosity about Sam's bare body, nor had he touched it; in all his fantasies, he had been forced to rely upon his imagination. It had not sufficed to give him the measure of what he now saw lying quiescent between Sam's thighs, and he felt his chest constrict with lack of breath as he stared, fascinated, feeling absurdly like a bird entranced by a snake that might yet strike.

He could not have summoned words to save his life, and later he could not tell how long he might have stood there, his gaze fastened upon Sam, drinking him in, helpless either to look away or to meet Sam's eyes. As Sam stood and waited patiently for him to move or speak, the washing-cloth dripped, a small puddle gradually spreading on the floor beside Sam's feet. Slowly, Sam's flesh began to darken and fill, and Frodo quivered as he watched it. He jerked his eyes up to Sam's face and flushed deep, guilty crimson to see the warmth of the smile that waited for him there.

He had no idea what sort of expression he must have upon his own face, but Sam's smile widened, and the soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes grew deeper. "Frodo?" he murmured at last, and the palms of his hands turned outward, inviting.

"I'm making supper," Frodo blurted, and darted into the safety of the back hall, where darkness had grown so deep his feet stumbled, and he had to feel for the pantry door.

When he emerged, only partly composed and clutching a slab of bacon, he managed not to look into the bathing room on his way down the hall. But when he reached the kitchen he found his precautions were for naught, for Sam had finished his bath rapidly and waited in the kitchen, his head wet and tousled. He rose from laying a log on to the fire.

"I have food in my pack, mushrooms and wine, gifts from the Elves!" Sam smiled at him again, and Frodo felt his face heat. "Bilbo didn't feel like traveling home, so he stayed in the smial-- there's a fine hole dug there already, even bigger than Bag End, and furnished, too. It's next to the field, and everything is laid out for a fine yard and garden. Springhouse, stone paths, beds-- and the fields look like they've been set two months or more; the Elves sang, and the plants came up and did a week of growing in half an hour! They brought along everything I couldn't fit in, it seems, and more. We'll have radish and carrot and cucumber, and the leaf lettuces are ready for picking already, and--"

Sam's eyes shone, and his voice sang with happiness as he talked; lost in his eyes, Frodo barely heard what he was saying, seeing as how he had witnessed much of it already.

"Anyhow, Gandalf stayed with Bilbo and the Elves," Sam concluded, unexpectedly. "He said you and I ought to have some time to talk quiet like, between ourselves." Sam straightened, and the firelight caught in his hair, gilding it.

Frodo dithered, nearly dropping the knife he had taken in hand to slice a loaf of crusty bread.

"Here now, have a care." Sam caught his arm and took the knife gently. "It seems he has the rights of it. You're jumpy as a cat, Frodo."

He was; he could feel himself trembling as Sam's hands wrapped around his. "I'm used to being alone with Bilbo," he tried to excuse himself. "We don't have strangers in to visit very of--" he choked to a halt, flushing with shame.

"I'm no stranger to you." Sam spoke softly, steady. "Or at least, I don't want to be." His fingers moved, feather light, stroking the inside of Frodo's palm. The touch was plainly meant to comfort, but it licked along Frodo's nerves like flame, and he trembled. "Come sit down, Frodo, and let me make the supper." Sam took the knife and the loaf, and Frodo sat on the bench, composing his hands carefully on the table.

Sam stood silhouetted against the fire, steady competent hands making short work of the loaf. "There, that's as it should be."

"I'm not helpless, and you aren't a servant." Frodo returned, with a bit more snap than he meant to.

"That I'm not." Sam's look was steady, and for a wonder, still warm. "But you'll cut yourself or burn yourself, or cook the shells and toss out the eggs, given the state you're in. So I should cook tonight. You can cook at breakfast, if you want to."

"I'm not in a state." He heard the sullenness of the falsehood himself.

"Have it as you like. Where do you keep the butter?" Sam followed Frodo's gesture and located the butter-dish. "There are mushrooms and onions in my pack, if you want to get them out and wash them."

Frodo did, grateful of the chance to do something other than stare at the fading bruise on his hand.

For his part, Sam kept up a steady chatter-- and this time, it did not touch close on Sam's family, but wandered through details of changes in the Shire, and the lives of Frodo's friends.

"The mallorn tree still stands in the Party Field, and it's grown near as tall as the one we climbed in Lórien to see the Lady for the first time." Sam smiled down at the mushrooms he was chopping. "And all the trees have grown tall again where Sharkey had them cut, though they aren't as wide as I'd like to see. They ought to be in another hundred years, though we won't be there for it. You should see Pippin-- Thain Peregrin, he was then-- riding through the woods in all his livery, looking lordly, as folk say, though they mean no harm by it." Sam's voice warmed, sounding fond. He cut bacon expertly and tossed it in the pan with the mushrooms and onions, and began to whip the eggs in a bowl.

Frodo remembered enough of Sam's stories to know his Elanor had married Pippin's son Faramir, who was Thain now in Pippin's stead, but something about Sam's voice when he spoke Pippin's name made a flicker of anger spark in Frodo's breast, and he frowned, unsure why.

"I went off to Gondor with Pippin and Merry once, and took the whole brood with me--and Elanor stayed to look after the Queen, as I told you before. We saw a lot of the places you and I passed on our journey. Wild, most of them still, though some are settled now, at least inside Gondor. Most places, now, you can go without fear of robbers or ruffians, though you still have to have a care for wolves and bears and the like. We came back by the Greenway, it being easier." Sam glanced at Frodo. "I saw the mountains again, and I don't mean the ones near Rivendell."

Frodo turned his gaze downwards, not wanting to hear. The bacon hissed and spat as Sam added it to the pan.

"There's green on their shoulders, at least facing the White City, but not on their tops. Still, there's sunlight above them, and over the land beyond, as there wasn't when you and I passed through."

Frodo kept his silence.

"We didn't go inside the Black Land, though Strider has granted men the right to live there, men who were left leaderless when the Dark Lord had gone." Sam scraped the bottom of the pan, a harsh sound. "I had no wish to go back, though I think about it now and again." He looked up. "Will you get out the table settings, or shall I?" His eyes were sharp, and Frodo felt pinned and trapped under them, his reactions measured and catalogued inside Sam's mind.

Frodo managed to fumble out plates, forks, and knives, and he laid them about with napkins and the salt-cellar while Sam dished up the scramble and maneuvered the toast out of its rack. Sam set the butter dish in the middle of it all, and poured glasses of wine for them both-- a fine vintage Frodo recognized from his infrequent visits with Elrond.

They ate and drank in silence for a time, but Frodo felt Sam's eyes on him, lingering on his hands, where his finger had been lost.

"Does it still pain you?" Sam spoke at last when they had finished the meal, so softly Frodo barely heard him.

"No," he managed to make his dry tongue lift, and dragged the word from his chest. "My wounds have not pained me since we arrived." He took a mouthful of wine and let his eyes close.

He could hear Sam's thoughtful nod, a soft rustle and a motion of air. "And you aren't ever ill or in pain, the way you used to be?"

"No." Frodo looked down at his fingers, white around the stem of his wineglass.

"I'm glad of that." Sam sounded sober, though, as though he heard the things Frodo did not say.

"Do you dream of it?" he asked at length, and there was a catch in his voice, a hitch in the smooth, mellow flow of sound. "I often did, especially at first: the sharp stones and our bloody feet, the orcs and the ash and the orange light. I dreamed for years of climbing the tower, desperate to find you."

Frodo made himself set aside his wineglass before he snapped the stem between his fingers. "No," he lied.

"I can still remember your weight sometimes when I dream," Sam said, drowsy, as though the dream had come to find him, waking. "You were feather-light when I carried you, though I still don't know why. I used to wake nearly every night with the feel of your weight on my shoulders. But that wasn't a terrible memory, Frodo. I always took comfort from it, even in my dreams; amidst the fire and the fear and the ash, I can remember the way the clouds lifted in the night to show a star, the way it felt to lie close next to you, Frodo, the way I would comfort you--"

"Sam!" Frodo shot upright in a panic, sending his plate and the silver clattering. His wineglass fell over, though it did not break, and the dregs pooled on the table-top like blood. "I would thank you not to recall Mordor to me!" He stared down in distress at Sam's upturned face, and his solemn, wise old eyes.

Frodo turned away, wrapping himself protectively with both arms. "There is nothing for me in the memory of that place but pain," he said, hoarse and rapid. "If there were pleasant things that happened there, I do not recall them."

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice was very quiet.

Frodo shivered, staring into the fire, which had begun its slow fall to ash, the embers gleaming with dark brightness like caverns of blood and black shadow.

"I've made matters worse; I can tell it," Sam said bleakly. "You've shut me out, Frodo, just as you did in the Shire."

"No," Frodo lied again. "That isn't true."

"It is and was," Sam said, with quiet certainty. "Here, I've poured more wine." He put a glass in Frodo's hand, and Frodo drank, rather faster than was wise. His belly flared with the heat of it, and his mouth tasted bitter. The fire seared his eyes, and when he lifted his face, he could see nothing but the blur of orange and black printed there, swimming before his mind.

He swayed, unsteady of a sudden, and Sam caught him about the waist. "It's time you were abed," Sam said. "You're that tired, you can't stand up. I won't have you falling in the fire."

Frodo stared back at the coals dumbly as Sam lifted him; they seemed all that he could see, and the embrace of Sam's arms and hands as Sam carried him to his bed felt as hot as brands, as though he had fallen amidst the burning logs, and lay there melting.

Laid down tenderly by Sam, he sank wearily against the soft linens and pillows of his bed, and the world burned itself away.

*****

The orange light of the Mountain kindled the frayed edge of Sam's hair to sullen flame; Frodo felt his gaze catch there for a moment as Sam's image eclipsed the wheel of fire-- the Ring-- that whispered to him, poisonous and sweet as rotted honey.

His mouth tasted of dust and ash; Sam's words were foreign to him, incomprehensible, all but lost. But Sam was there, and Frodo clung to that, even as he heard himself speaking that same foreign tongue without knowing what he said, even as he felt himself grasp Sam's wrist and draw Sam's hand to him, his grip tight with desperation.

And Sam's hand was real, was strong; it was warm and soft on his skin, and the Ring's fell voice faded when Sam touched him, the filthy words receding, so that when Sam's hand hesitated, Frodo whimpered needfully, and urged it down until it closed about him.

It brought him back to himself, or near enough, for at least a moment. He gloried in it, feeling Sam's breath humid and warm against his throat, feeling Sam's firm hand stroking him. Frodo knew himself alive, with joy and will stirring in him, so that he turned his own face against Sam's cheek and gasped broken syllables of words there; words of love and gratitude.

The ring seared his chest, furious, battling this new distraction, but it could not destroy the sensation of Sam's hand and his gentle breath; it could not keep Frodo's body from surging to meet Sam's touch and rising with pleasure. Frodo could feel the Ring waiting at the edge of his mind, looming with urgency, and also a faint, silvery need for haste that touched his consciousness from afar.

Balanced between the two, Frodo writhed and found Sam's mouth, tasting ash on his lips, but tasting even more the life and the love in his kiss. For a moment Sam was all his world, and Frodo cried out with the beauty of it; unexpected and startling, bliss crashed over him and rolled him under, but as the tide of pleasure went out, the tide of fire crawled in and washed over him--

Frodo gasped himself awake, hovering on the edge of a scream, and flung his hand over his mouth to choke it back. His breath rasped loudly in the darkness, as loudly as a cross-cut saw, it seemed, but he had not screamed. No footsteps echoed in the hall; no one was coming to tend him.

His body was still hard; he had found no release in his dream. To touch himself with the memory of the dream lingering in his mind felt like plunging his hand into a midden, but he knew that if he did not, it would torment him until dawn and maybe after, so he reached down and wrapped his fist around his shaft to ease his aching body.

The dream was real, he was all but certain-- or it had been, once. Sam's hand had touched him where no other hobbit's had, save his own. Frodo shuddered with wanting and felt himself grow harder. Sam's hand. He had felt it once more after that, but by then he could not rise to it, no matter how Sam tried, and Frodo had refused to let Sam continue, after a time, or attempt to rouse him with his mouth. Instead he turned away to huddle on the stony soil, knowing that the Elves were coming to meet them at the Havens, knowing he had not yet told Sam....

But if he had risen to Sam's touch, if he could have filled Sam's seeking hand, let Sam's gentle, loving mouth enclose him instead of pushing it away.... Frodo whined and turned his face into his pillow, biting down hard on the pillow slip. He could only imagine how it might have felt, but in his mind he knew it would consume him, swallowing him whole, washing him under.

Like the Ring. Like sinking into its spell, like drowning in the dark honey-brown waters of the Brandywi--

Frodo jerked fully awake again, sweat grown cold on his brow. He could not let himself come in his sleep; that he knew. The waters came for him when his flesh rose in the night, and the fire. They surged in hissing like steam, roaring like waves upon the shore; they swept in to lift him up and drag him down.

Still, he wanted it; he wanted it so much! But he could not seek solace in memory, not with Sam so near....

Frodo rose silently, moving as quietly as only a hobbit could, and stole from the house. The path was familiar under his feet, the stones cool with dew, and the onshore breeze dried the sweat on his body with its mild breath. The ocean would be gentle, and as warm as blood.

The sand yielded under his feet, dragging at his steps, but he persevered, running down to the sea as though running to greet a lover. When the sand grew hard under his feet, he flung off his nightshirt and ran faster, until the surf battered at his chest; then he flung himself on it, into the outstretched fingers of the waves. They lapped and hissed around him, and pushed him under, and he moaned, bubbles rising from his open mouth. His hand closed around his cock, squeezing hard.

The waves lifted him and dragged at him, they turned him and twisted him and then rolled him on to his back and pushed him up the beach. He lay there, gasping, his hand stroking in the same slow, fierce rhythm of the surf, letting the water lift him and drag him along, letting it caress his overheated limbs and cool them. He tasted salt and grit in his mouth; the air in his lungs was thick and wet. He turned on to his belly and let the water rise and fall as it would, covering and uncovering his face and nose as it climbed and receded patiently in its endless surge and fall.

A larger wave picked him up again; he raised his wet face and drank a gulp of air, then let his head sink below the surface again, fist working furiously. Seaweed tangled around his feet and tickled at his thighs. A second wave battered at him, pushing him into the sand, dragging at his feet. His lungs strained, aching, and he came hard, spending his seed in the water, forcing himself not to raise his head, prolonging the shuddering spasms that racked him until he could see spots before his closed eyes, and his body screamed for breath until he could not resist any longer, could not--

He flung his head back just as another wave struck, and he swallowed water, half-drowning even as his knees and his palms found the yielding sand. He knelt there, gasping and choking, the sand rasping between his teeth. He could all but feel steam rising off his body as he crawled forward out of the reach of the grasping waves, until the sand was soft and dry under his belly. Then he collapsed and lay there, the world spinning about him, the breath gradually slowing in his chest, until he slept.


	4. Sea

When Frodo awoke, he could taste the grit of sand harsh between his teeth, and salt had dried to a crust on his lips. The Sun shone brightly, but he noticed only as an afterthought, distracted by the rustle and flutter of cloth against his bare limbs. He knew before he ever opened his eyes that Sam must have brought a sheet out to cover him. 

He blinked sand out of his lashes and stirred to wipe it from his mouth and his cheek. The sheet covered his whole body, including his head. Sam would probably still be there, waiting for him to wake. The thought filled him with tension; his muscles coiled like springs and threatened to cramp. He lifted the corner of the sheet at length and looked out, but there was no one to be found-- only the brisk wind, the shining sands, and the broken white foam of the surf. A gull wheeled overhead, giving voice to its raucous song. 

Frodo dropped the corner of the sheet and tried to decide what to do; he was, it seemed, caught. Perhaps, he hoped, it might have been Bilbo who covered him; the old hobbit might have come back from the farmstead early in the morning. If it had been Sam, he surely would have stayed, would he not? 

As Frodo lay debating the matter with himself, the sand on his skin itched and his mouth felt ever more parched and thirsty. It was time to go indoors. If it had been Sam who covered him, Frodo would brazen it somehow-- and the soonest done, the soonest mended. 

He threw the sheet back decisively this time and stood, padding down the beach until the surf embraced him, then continued until he could sluice the sand off his body easily with handfuls of cool, green water. The surf was calmer now than it had been the night before. Behind him, the sheet had come undone from its careful arrangement, where its windward edge had been buried under handfuls of sand to keep it from flying away. Its trailing end snapped briskly in the breeze. 

Frodo stepped out of the surf and went up the beach; the sheet gleamed with painful whiteness, dazzling his eyes as he shook the sand out of it and wrapped it once about himself, tossing the trailing end over his shoulder. 

It did not bear thinking whether Sam had been wakeful the night before and witnessed Frodo's tryst with the waves.

Frodo crossed the soft sands, feeling the sun soaking its heat into the crown of his head. The hot sand clung to his wet feet, but there was nothing to be done about that. 

He decided to go in from the back, in case Sam was waiting for him in the parlor, but when he stepped inside the door, there Sam stood in the kitchen, putting a kettle on to boil, his face impassive. There was no sign of Bilbo and Frodo hesitated, flustered, aware suddenly that he was only covered by the thin white sheet, which clung in places to his wet body, all but translucent. 

Sam turned towards him when he had set the kettle on its hook, but when he spied Frodo he did not look away politely, as he might have done. Instead, his eyes swept over Frodo frankly and without haste, just as Frodo had looked at him the previous evening. Frodo froze under the study, poised to take a step, startled out of his composure by the unabashed heat that lay behind Sam's calm appraisal. 

The only motion for a long moment was the sheet, which rippled softly in the breeze from the open door, and the slow journey of Sam's eyes as they took in the sight of Frodo. Those two things alone betrayed that time had failed to freeze along with Frodo, but continued on in its eternal march, as relentless as the breaking sea. 

An answering ember flared in Frodo's belly, unexpected and intense; he felt himself begin to fill and swell with mortifying speed. It jolted him from his stunned pose and drove him forward, but Sam's voice halted him as he stepped towards the hall. 

"You'll burn your bits as red as a pie-cherry if you sleep out in the Sun like that without clothes on," Sam commented, his voice pitched low and intimate, vibrating between them with the same warmth his eyes held. Frodo flushed near as red as the cherry of Sam's description, pulling the sheet close around his chest. He knew he was acting like a blushing maid, and that mortified him nearly as much as the unwanted reaction of his body. He felt the faint roughness of the sheet against him as he hardened; it held his shaft erect against his belly. He did not dare to look down to find out whether it could be seen. 

Sam had seen him and covered him, and gone in afterward. But he might as well have stayed. As it was, he had left the evidence of his suffocating presence to torment Frodo, left Frodo to wonder what he had seen, and how he had looked, and where, when he found Frodo lying in the sand. Frodo felt his mouth tighten. Sam might as well have watched him bathe and walk up the beach! 

Frodo's cock pulsed with liquid heat at the thought, and the sheet bound it uncomfortably close. He could feel the breath of the wind cool along its length; the cloth was wet. His face flamed, and he felt his fingers whiten where they clutched the poor concealment of his single wet garment. 

As quick as that, the light went out of Sam's eyes, and he turned his face away. "Bilbo and Gandalf will be about, presently; they meant to journey down late this morning. And there's still the matter of breakfast to tend to," he remarked. 

Frodo felt life return to his limbs when Sam turned aside, and made his hasty escape. All other things being equal, he was relieved that he had come in before they arrived. He hastily rinsed the salt and sand from himself with a cloth and the bucket of clear water that stood waiting in his room, and put on a shirt and breeches. 

When he emerged, Sam already had the fires lit and the pans warming. "We'll need to do another baking; it's a pity we won't finish before the Sun goes high," he commented. "The smial will be stifling hot all afternoon. But it can't be helped. I'll make the dough while you cook, if that suits." 

It did, and Frodo managed something approaching his usual competence in the kitchen, relieved that Sam was occupied by stirring and kneading, too busy to do more than grunt an occasional comment or ask where he might find a bit of cinnamon. 

They ate standing up, Sam hardly pausing in his work, and when they had eaten the last of the buttered toast, Frodo washed the dishes and went back to tidy the smial a bit, to have things ready for Bilbo when he arrived. 

Out from under Sam's eyes, he felt unexpectedly peaceful pottering about the place tidying rooms, almost as though this were one of his and Bilbo's quiet mornings. He thought he would check his crab traps before dinner; they had soaked for three days now, and ought to have a fine catch of small blue summer crabs inside. They would be a nice change from the steady diet of bacon, eggs, and toast. He would need to catch a fish or two to bait them again, too. 

It would be as good an excuse as any to escape from the house for a while, and be out from under so many prying eyes.

Sam left the dough to rise and joined Frodo at his cleaning, taking it on himself to scrape up the ashes from the cold hearths and take them out to dump in to the privy. Frodo pulled the sheets of the beds tight and checked the state of the hampers; he would need to launder soon, but not today. 

"Frodo lad!" Bilbo appeared in the door, his cheeks flushed with wind and good health; Frodo had not heard the arrival of his little cart. "I smell new bread rising!" Frodo did not miss Bilbo's quick, sharp look to the hamper, and knew his curious, meddlesome old uncle must be looking for soiled bed-linens. 

Holding his sudden flare of temper mostly in check, Frodo straightened. "There is. Sam knew you were slacking abed!" The small barb went unnoticed, a normal part of their daily verbal jousting.

"Fine, fine. I always think bread tastes far better to the ones who don't have to do the kneading!" Bilbo looked at Frodo again, sharp and shrewd. "And how are you two faring?"

"Very well," Frodo returned evenly. "Why shouldn't we be?" With Bilbo in the mood to pry for information, Frodo's planned fishing trip was sounding better and better. He turned and began to count the blankets in the closet, as though to be sure more would not be needed. 

"Well, you both look a little less mussed than I expected to find you, if you see what I mean." Bilbo chuckled, conspiratorial.

Frodo whirled, aware that color must be flushing hectically in his cheeks. He struggled to keep his voice low, so that everyone else in the house would not hear him. "Everyone seems to believe I have lurked here for sixty years like a spider in a web, with only one purpose: to pounce on Sam and have my wicked way with him as soon as he set a foot on shore-- Sam included!" He tried to control himself, smoothing his breeches with shaking hands. 

"My dear Frodo!" Bilbo bounced back on his heels with surprise, drawing himself up and puffing his cheeks a bit. "Calm down, lad; it isn't like that at all. But all the same, you can't deny--" 

"Can't I?" Frodo bit the words out sharply.

"--you've done more than a bit of laundry in his name!" Bilbo finished, stubborn but still trying to remain jovial. Bilbo's bedchamber, Frodo must admit perforce, was near enough that he might hear any untoward sound in the night. Frodo felt his face burn; he knew he was not a quiet sleeper. 

"That's as may be." Frodo thought his face might catch fire, were he to flush any hotter! "But I assure you I am in perfect control of myself, Bilbo, and I'll thank you to leave well enough alone, for that isn't your business!" 

"Now see here," Bilbo chuffed, a bit of annoyance finally beginning to kindle. "Now see here, Frodo!"

"I have to see to it that we have a bit of meat for dinner instead," Frodo interrupted without grace. "If you'll pardon me, my crab pots are soaking in the bay." He shouldered past Bilbo and down the hall. 

He paused at the kitchen door, unhappily aware of the picture of discomposure he presented. "If you'll pardon me, Gandalf, Sam." He straightened his cuffs and reached for his coat, struggling to regain a bit of dignity. "I must go out now to tend my fishing lines, and I hope to bring home a catch of blue crabs for our supper." 

Gandalf nodded and raised his hand in sober farewell, and Sam, covered in flour to his elbows, looked sad but resigned as he also inclined his head. Frodo left them to it and stalked out, pausing only to snatch a coil of sturdy rope, which waited for him always, hanging on its hook next to the door. 

He ignored the unfamiliar brown pony that stood outside with its nose in the manger and went down to the beach. He labored through the hot, shifting surface until his feet were solid upon the firm, wet sand, then turned himself south and set out along the beach at a trot for the same promontory they had crossed-- could it be only two nights ago? Yes, his count was true. His little fishing boat lay moored there, and he often took it out in the sheltered area behind the long stone outcrop, where the bay was mirror-smooth and calm, sheltered from the sea winds and undisturbed by the constant rolling surf that broke on the beach in front of the smial. 

Frodo liked the sea, and he liked the barnacle-crusted little pier where he docked his boat. The pier was made of grey boards that were beginning to curl and warp in the weather. The Elves had built it of wood, though they usually made such things of stone, and he realized now that their choice had been made from deference to his liking, just as they had prepared a square field for Sam. 

He could feel himself beginning to grow calmer as he spied the little grey boat rocking on the swell, and he was nearly himself again by the time he went out on to the pier, the boards thudding a faint hollow melody under his feet. The rope that held the boat was beginning to weather and fray where it lay about its piling, a single broad tree-trunk worn smooth by long years and many similar ropes' sliding. He was in no hurry to return to the smial, so he pulled his knife from his pocket and cut a fresh length from the oiled coil he bore over his shoulder. 

The tide was high, and that was a blessing, for he had less work to pull the little boat up on to the dock, where he spent a soothing half-hour replacing the rope and checking the seams on its broad bottom. He took great pains and care with the application of new oakum that he kept in a water-tight box on the pier, even oiling the oar-locks while he had his boat pulled out of the water. 

This was something he could do well, and he'd warrant Sam could not; it was a craft he had seen often as a child, and had learned anew with the help of the Elves who provided these things for him. Yes, Frodo thought, bristling a little. He could do very well for himself without Sam, and he too had grown and changed-- this was the proof of it. 

When he was finished, the Sun was rising over the arm of the promontory, and the shadows were leaving his pier. He let the boat down on to the waves again and tossed his rope ladder into it, then climbed down, his feet nimble on the tarred knots. When he was settled he wrapped it around a hook on the piling to wait for him and settled the oars in the oar-locks, propelling himself out across the rippling water. 

During his and Bilbo's first winter here, Frodo had roughened his fingers and soothed his aching heart while fashioning floats from well-corked glass bottles, fat and round, which he sealed with wax, then netted and tied with tarred rope, after the manner of the sea-Elves. Sometimes they leaked and sank, and others broke free and floated away, but he always replaced them with his own hands, saving only the making of the bottles. 

The floats bobbed on the surface of the bay, anchored by his crab pots and fishing-lines; a bit of bright cloth tied on a stick marked each one. Frodo aimed his prow for the nearest and began to pull on the oars, liking the way they slid through his hands. His shoulders flexed and released as he pulled, feeling an ineffable sense of relief to be away from the shoreline and safe at last in a place where he could be certain no one would come to trouble him. 

Just as he thought it, a white gull swooped in to perch with awkward dignity on the gunwale, staring at him defiantly. It had a long, hooked yellow beak and graceful, narrow wings of grey and black twice the length of its body, and its small gleaming eye was nearly as sharp as Bilbo's. It sidled two steps closer on its yellow webbed feet, tucking its long wings neatly against its body. 

Frodo laughed softly at his folly; at least it would not nag at him for anything more troublesome than fish. There were hundreds of the white and grey birds soaring over the bay and diving into its easy, low swell: they were all fishing, some of them even diving into the waves like white arrows. A flight of pelicans was hunting as well, their ungainly brown bodies awkward on the water, but seeming graceful and light when they took to the air. 

Frodo reached the first float and stretched to snag it with a hooked pole, catching it and pulling it over the side, then began to haul on the line it had supported. This would be a string of fish, suitable for the table or for re-baiting his pots. Sure enough, several fat sea-bream and perch dangled from its length, and they soon flopped in the bilge of his boat, silver bellies shining. Frodo freed each one in turn and put them on a line that dangled in the sea, the better to keep fresh his catch. 

He threw a few fishes, too small for either bait or the pan, to his companion gull, and soon he had a winged cloud gathered about his boat. They dipped and swung, eclipsing the light, mewing and wailing like feathered cats. Frodo clucked his tongue; they would spatter him and the boat alike, so he drew on his bleached and worn straw hat. 

Frodo shed first his coat and then his shirt as the Sun rose high. He might burn his bits if he left them bare, just as Sam had observed, but his chest, arms, and legs were bronzed and hardy against the Sun. He rowed farther along the promontory and pulled in a heavy crab pot, pleased by its contents-- half a dozen blue crabs, and more minnows for the gulls. 

It took a crafty hand to empty the pots without being pinched, but Frodo had learned the trick of it over long years, and soon the crabs swam in the shallow, mesh-covered live-well he had fashioned for them. 

It was not merely Sam who was capable after all, Frodo reflected with a newfound sense of satisfaction as he baited the heavy hook inside the pot and tossed the whole thing back in to the water, following it with the float. Only half a dozen pots later, Frodo had caught as much as they required; he emptied the last pot into the live well and reflected with satisfaction that they would eat well on the food he had just provided. Now he might let himself feel a little better about Sam's flourishing garden, and the gifts Sam might bestow from it. 

His pots lifted and returned to soaking, Frodo decided he had earned a rest. He had not slept peacefully, even upon the beach; it was hard to rest well with the surf tugging at one's ankles. Frodo sluiced new, cool water into the live well and bailed the resulting bilge, set a line to trail for sea-bass, and then leaned back with a sigh, pillowing his head upon the coil of rope. The water was nearly as smooth as glass this morning, and even if he drifted, he could row back in. 

The gulls, realizing their free meal had ended, gradually flapped away, leaving him to rock in peace upon the water. But he was not to be granted peace for long; voices drifted across the water, and they roused him from his drowsy napping. Frodo lifted his head to look and found that Bilbo and Sam stood upon his pier many ells away, so far that he could hardly distinguish which hobbit was which. 

It was an unusually long walk for Bilbo, but Frodo belatedly recollected the sturdy, fat pony that had been nosing in the manger when he emerged at high speed, and reckoned that Bilbo must have ridden it down the beach alongside Sam. 

Neither of the two being watermen, they probably did not realize how far voices could travel along a flat, calm sea. But both were, perhaps, slightly deaf from age, and they spoke loudly, so travel their voices did, and Frodo stilled to listen, unable to help himself. 

"He's gone out in his boat," Bilbo explained to Sam. "See it there, near the point? He won't go farther, or I don't think he will. The sea turns rougher where the wind hits, and he'd have a job of getting back in again." 

"I don't see anyone in the boat." Even so far away, Frodo could hear the worry in Sam's voice.

"He's having a sleep, no doubt, with his baskets filled. He didn't look rested, I thought." Bilbo cleared his throat. "The sun feels good, don't you think?" 

"It burns the chill out of my old bones, for certain." Frodo heard the rustle and thump of the two old hobbits lowering themselves carefully to a seat. 

Bilbo spoke at length. "I've brought my pipe but forgotten my pouch, drat the thing!" 

"I have mine along." Sam laughed. "I daresay I can give you a run for your money blowing smoke rings, if you care to try it."

"It's been many a year since I blew a proper smoke ring," Bilbo answered, and they were quiet for a few moments as they lit their pipes. 

"There's a fine one," Bilbo said after a bit. "I'm impressed, lad!"

"It's a skill you lose without practice, I reckon." Sam answered kindly. "You'll soon blow rings around me again!" 

"Around you, maybe, but not Gandalf!" Bilbo chortled. "He'd show us both, if he hadn't gone away, but he'll be back before long. I think he wanted to go off and practice without us watching!" 

The two of them smoked for a time in silence, for so long Frodo nearly fell asleep again, but then Bilbo spoke up.

"What happened with Frodo, Sam-lad?" His reedy old voice was kind. "I thought to ask him, but he came near biting the nose off my face." 

"Nothing." Sam answered, so quietly Frodo almost couldn't make out the words. "I don't think I'm what he wants."

"Nonsense." Bilbo cleared his throat, an impatient chuff. "You haven't had to hear him thinking of you half the night, near every night for sixty years!" 

Frodo bit his lip savagely, anger and shame swelling in his breast, but he lay still. 

"He wants with his eyes, maybe, but not with his heart." Sam answered him, his voice brisk, but Frodo could hear that it was also laced with pain. 

"It isn't easy for him, Samwise." There was a tapping as Bilbo knocked out his pipe against a piling. "Judging by your tales of all your children, you've shared your Rosie's bed whenever you liked, without hearing a 'no' for years on end." 

Sam chuckled ruefully. "You've a point there, I reckon, but... I don't know what to do about him, Bilbo. He isn't happy with me, and he doesn't seem to want to be."

Bilbo cleared his throat, a thoughtful sound, and a prolonged one. "I wonder if you can tell me something, Sam." 

"Eh?" Sam too knocked out his pipe. "Ask away."

"Did you ever see Frodo take anyone to his bed? After I left, that is."

Sam was still then, for so long that Frodo thought he mightn't answer. When he did speak, Frodo had to strain to hear, cursing the sough of the wind. 

"Once, perhaps, that I know. Not quite twice." Sam sounded weary with defeat. "Why?"

"I never knew him to take a lover before I left, either," Bilbo mused. "I always thought he was waiting for you to grow up, if you want the truth of it, whether he knew it or not. Who was it, Sam, if I may?" 

This time Sam did not speak, and Bilbo's low hum of understanding echoed across the water, meshing with the gentle rush of the waves. "Then it was you....? On the journey, I suppose."

Frodo's heart raced in his chest, terror closing its fist about his heart. Then his dreams *were* true ones. He could not make out Sam's answer, but Bilbo's response was clear, heavy with rue. 

"That does complicate matters a bit. I was a poor model for him, Sam-lad; buried in my books, going about without a wife. He never learned...." Bilbo's voice was lost then, as a gust of breeze buffeted across the gunwale of the boat. 

Frodo lay waiting for it to subside, livid with anger and shame, loathing to be discussed like a chicken at the market, not quite suited for buying. "....and too many years," Bilbo concluded. "But what of you, Sam? If I ever saw a lad smitten with another, it was you." 

"I won't say I didn't love my Rosie, for I did, but Frodo...." Sam spoke simply, his voice quiet. "He was everything in the world to me. But being who he was, and acting the way he did, I didn't think I had a chance at him. Everything was all but set for me to marry her when we went away." Sam sighed. "It was a sore blow to him, I think, to find her waiting on me yet when we came back, though he didn't show it. But he pushed me at her, and I reckon he had a quiet word with my Gaffer, too, to set things going." Sam was still for a moment, and peering over the gunwale, Frodo could see him swinging his legs, and see the faint drift of smoke from his new-filled pipe. 

"When he'd gone, even with her to take care of me, I was that lost, I didn't know what to do. And round about that time, Merry caught it hot from his dad about going off without warning anybody, and so he had to go and marry his sweetheart. Estella Bolger, she was, from off near Crickhollow. He always had a special fondness for her. That tore Pippin apart near as much as Frodo's leaving hurt me." 

"You turned to each other." Bilbo guessed, his voice gentle, and Frodo felt his jaw clench. As if Rosie Cotton and thirteen children hadn't been enough? He understood now the instinctive anger he had felt when Sam mentioned Pippin before; there must have been some hint of this in Sam's look and his voice. 

Frodo clenched his jaw tightly, feeling his jaw creak, and his stomach roiled with ugly jealousy. Merry and Pippin had been the closest things Frodo ever had to a family of his own-- like younger brothers. He cherished his friendship with them, and the memories of their closeness-- but even that was nothing, compared to this! 

Sam said something that was lost to the waves, and Frodo strained to hear, biting down so hard his teeth ground together. "....And he knew losing Frodo left an empty place inside of me, though we didn't do more than that about it, for a time anyway. But then Pippin's dad made him marry himself off, too, for there had to be an heir. He set Pippin up to marry Diamond of Long Cleeve, and her a spinster half again Pippin's age, but she had deep pockets and plenty of breeding." 

Sam scoffed, and Frodo heard him spit into the sea. "For all that was worth. She and Pippin couldn't abide each other, you know. He sired young Faramir on her, though, before she tossed him out of her bed, and then she moved herself right out and went home again. There Pippin was, with a wife who wouldn't stay in the Great Smials at his side, and a son, young Faramir Took, half-left for me and Rosie to help bring up." 

"Leaving nowhere else for him to turn."

"Nowhere to turn, because for Merry, the world didn't go outside Estella's skirt-tails." Sam paused. "What with me being Mayor and Pippin the Thain, we got thrown together every way we turned." Sam sighed. "With both of us hurting as we were, and longing for what was lost, it was only a matter of time." 

A gust of wind drowned Sam's voice for several moments, and Frodo fidgeted, straining to hear. "....He used to come to me when we were off in Michel Delving seeing to the running of things. Most nights he couldn't sleep, and he would come in to my room with his candle. All thin arms and legs he was, gangly like a tween, until well up in his fiftieth or more: his night-shirt too big for him, his face nothing but eyes, the Took in him all coming out, needing. He seemed so much like Frodo I hadn't the heart to turn him away. Rosie knew, of course, but she turned a blind eye." Sam laughed, but the sound was bitter. 

"He taught me a lot I wish I'd known earlier, but too late for it to do Frodo any good." Sam coughed, discreet. "The Sun's going behind the mountains; it won't stay warm here for long." 

"When the shadow touches his boat, he'll wake and come back in." Bilbo observed. "The tide's been out, but it's coming in again. He's drifted halfway back as it is." He lowered his voice a bit and continued. "Frodo doesn't know what to do about you, Sam. I think he wants to love you so much the wanting scares him out of his wits, and he doesn't know how to share himself-- to love others-- as you've learned to do." 

"He loved the Shire so much he gave his whole future up for it, and everyone inside."

"That's true, but he doesn't know how to love a single hobbit, and perhaps he never did!" Bilbo explained. "You have to love yourself first, Samwise, before you can do that." 

"You've the truth of that," Sam said heavily. "But how can I teach him to love himself, if I can't show him he's loved without him raising spikes at me like a porcupine?"

"Patience, Samwise. He's a smart lad. He'll come around." 

Frodo bristled; his jaw ached and his head hurt, a steely lance of pain driving through his temple. 

"So Gandalf tells me." Sam did not sound convinced. "'Abide with patience and trust in Frodo,' he says. But I miss my Elanor, and the rest of them, too-- more than I can say. It's like having my heart cut out and trampled every time he turns his back to me, or brushes me away. I have to wonder, Bilbo, if I did right to leave them." 

Frodo had heard enough, so much that his stomach turned with nausea, the sway of the waves making it rock in time with the pounding in his head.

"Time will tell," Bilbo said, and Frodo imagined he must be putting his arm about Sam. There was a time of silence. 

"Hoy, Frodo!" Bilbo called across the water at last, raising his voice to a shout. "Wake up, lad, before you drift all the way to Kortirion! The bread will be burnt to a cinder if you don't come in so we can go fetch it out!" 

Frodo lay stiff for a long moment, wondering what they would do if he simply failed to answer, but when Bilbo called again, there was little he could do other than rise and knuckle his eyes, stretching as though he had only just awakened, and then gather his gear, pulling in his string of fish. He dressed himself before laying hands to the oars and sculling slowly back towards the pier. As he did, he struggled to swallow the bile and the sickness of guilt and anger that rose in his throat. 

"I believe I've had too much sun; I don't feel quite myself," he answered their concern when he reached the pier, but he filled the crates they handed down to him, then handed them up again. They loaded the crates on to the pony and Bilbo after them, and then they went down the pier towards the long strand of beach. Despite Frodo's best attempts, he could not manage to arrange himself on the other side of the pony from Sam, who flanked him with obvious concern, and Frodo resigned himself to his nursemaid with ill-grace, setting forth without speaking. 

Gandalf was waiting when they returned, and indeed he had been practicing, for he greeted them with a wide blue smoke-ring that danced across the sand to greet them, and hovered overhead as they drew near.

"You're showing off," Bilbo chortled, and he scrambled off the pony. Frodo realized, through the ache in his head, that he seemed much more spry and alert since Sam's arrival, and surely this was to be wished. 

"And you went away and left your bread in the oven!" Gandalf pointed the stem of his pipe at Sam. "Luckily for you, I happened to return a bit earlier than I expected. You'll find it cooling on the table, and I expect an invitation to dinner in return!" 

"As if you needed an invitation." Bilbo beamed up at Gandalf, then trotted inside. A few moments later, his voice emerged from the kitchen window. "Hoy there, Sam, is this Lily Cotton's famous cinnamon apple bread I spy?" 

"That it is," Sam called. "And what's more, I have her recipes for hot-pot and brandied plum cake, too! Is there any way to get brandy in this land?"

Gandalf widened his eyes with humorous avarice. "I think that can be arranged." 

The bread was still hot, proving their timing was not so bad as all that, but Frodo had no appetite for it. Instead he begged exhaustion, then went in to the bathing-room and plied the pump until he had enough water to fill a cool tub. He lay back in it with the washing-cloth over his eyes, feeling it soak the extra heat out of him even as it washed away the sand and sweat of the day. The sounds of pleasant conversation drifted down the hall to him, but his stomach did not heed even the scent of Lily Cotton's apple and cinnamon bread, or the savory scent of garlic, butter, and herbs being readied for cooking his catch. 

"Those are fearsome looking beasts to bring to the table," Sam sounded doubtful. "You aren't going to boil them alive, are you?"

"I'm sorry, Sam," Bilbo said with regret. "But that's how it's done." 

"You won't mind if I look aside, I hope." Sam said soberly. "For I hate to think of them suffering, even as ugly as they are."

"It's no worse than wringing a hen's neck or butchering a pig, Samwise." Gandalf said gently. "They do not suffer long." 

"This would be why the Elves don't eat a great deal of meat, I'm thinking," Sam commented. 

"Indeed." Gandalf responded. "But life feeds life. Even plants have lives of their own!" 

The crabs were duly dispatched, judging by the sound of splashes, and in a few minutes they were ready to be served. To judge from the sounds in the kitchen, upon taking his first hesitant mouthful, Sam overcame all his reservations, exclaimed with delight, and was soon cracking the rough shells and claws with great liking. Frodo lay back with his eyes closed, listening. He was beginning to feel better, if not well, and his headache was slowly fading. Few physical pains lingered for long in the Undying Lands. 

When the dinner was over and done, Frodo still lay in the tepid water and listened as Bilbo excused himself and retired to his bed; his day had been an unusually demanding one. Soon the smial was quiet, and Frodo arose, toweling himself dry. His fingers and toes had wrinkled, but he felt cool and much refreshed. When he went out, dressed and feeling better than he had yet all day, he greeted Gandalf, who sat pensive in the parlor, reading a book. 

"Bilbo is in bed and Sam has gone for a walk," Gandalf said, and Frodo nodded to him. Feeling hungry at last, he went in to the kitchen for a large slice of bread-and-butter and a few morsels of cold crab-meat that were left over from supper. He ate far more than he expected, glad to be alone, and washed it down with draughts of fresh water. Then he cut himself a slice of the apple and cinnamon bread made from Lily's recipe. It was even better than his memory would have it. 

The Moon was rising when he finished, and looked to be on the wane, spilling out his light over the sea. Unexpectedly Frodo spotted Sam standing on the beach, his shadow dark and small against the brilliant, dancing trail of the moon. He stood with his back to the smial, facing the east, and as Frodo watched, he lifted his hands to his face and wiped furtively at his cheeks-- he was weeping. 

Frodo stood still, his heart filled with terrible shame and self-loathing. He wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to run through the door and down the path, to find Sam and to gather him up and to weep his own shame and apologies onto Sam's shoulder. But he could neither let nor make himself take the first step, and in a moment, Sam turned and walked out of the moon-path, farther down the darkened beach. Frodo sat in the kitchen for a time, and then moved into the parlor to share a glass of wine with Gandalf, telling himself he was not waiting for Sam to return. 

At last, when Sam did not, he picked up the stub of his candle and took himself quietly away to bed, leaving Gandalf to his book.


	5. Shell

In spite of his bath and his worries, sleep was no longer a safe haven for Frodo, and his distress over Sam's grief only worsened his plight. Soon he lay twisted in the sheets, caught between rest and wakefulness, sweaty and whimpering as the phantasms of his mind pursued him between waking and sleeping.

At first it seemed to him that he was a statue, all but invisible and powerless to move, forced to watch as Sam and Pippin touched one another, curling into each other upon a wide bed, but then he thought he was Pippin, with Sam's fingers trailing over him, and all of Sam's skin against his, but though he could watch Sam's hands and knew they were laid upon him, he could feel nothing.

And then he was himself, and he was still with Sam, but they were upon the crag within Mount Doom, and as they lay together, writhing in pleasure, Frodo knew the lava was rising to engulf them. He could feel its scorching heat; the stone beneath his back fairly sizzled against his skin. But when he opened his mouth to cry warning, the smoke choked his lungs and he could not speak. Sam was lost to bliss as the fire rolled in and scorched them both to blackened bones and ash.

Frodo was aware of himself then, lying on his belly in bed and gasping to breathe; his legs were tangled in the sheet, and his pillow was over his head, half suffocating him. He tried to move, but he could not; he was lost in the land between waking and sleep, and his limbs were heavy as lead. He struggled to wake, meaning to kick the sheet away, but he could not; all he managed was a hitching motion that pushed his cock against the sheets.

He struggled again, and his cock chafed against the mattress, a sweet burn of friction that pushed him towards waking; he thrust deliberately, and heard himself groan, faint and muzzy in his own ears. If he lay with Sam, Sam's weight would press him down into the mattress, and each of Sam's thrusts would feel just like this, driving Frodo against the sheet. He groaned again, knowing he should not, but his thoughts were cloudy with sleep and pleasure; he twisted his head to one side and gulped air, his hips shoving forward hard.

It was not enough, though, just to push against the mattress; he needed more. Frodo lunged against the chains of sleep and crested the surface just long enough to twist on to his back. His cock felt hot and damp inside his palm. A clear warning flickered across his clouded brain, but the part of him that needed did not heed its call, and he shoved up through his fingers, whimpering, as consciousness subsided.

This dream was better, so much better than before; he could feel Sam's hand on him now, and he thrust into it hard, whining with urgency. Sam's grip tightened, and Frodo gasped, arching. He quivered on the verge, and Sam twisted deftly; sensation blazed through Frodo, and he was lost.

"Sam!" The cry that rose from his lips wakened him; Frodo blinked awake, his hand and belly wet. He could still hear the echoes he had set loose in the night, a plaintive and lonely cry to the lost past. His body was wet and shaking, bent in a taut arch, and wet stripes streaked his belly like tears, his passion spent.

Frodo collapsed onto the coverlet, and only then did the flicker of light against his closed lids send its message to his slow-waking mind.

Frodo's eyes snapped open with immediate dismay and locked on Samwise, who stood in the doorway of his room, a candle shielded behind his hand. The revealing light flowed through his fingers. Frodo froze, torn between distress and anger. The evidence was, of course, quite damning; there was no point in even attempting to cover it.

"I walked until I wanted my bed," Sam explained, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. "And I heard you call out for me as I came down the hall. I thought you must be having a nightmare, just as you used to back in the Shire after the Ring was gone, where nothing would comfort you but for me to come hold you and rock you till you slept." He hesitated, then stepped forward, and the candle wavered, making shadows dance crazily on his face. For a moment he seemed almost the Sam of Frodo's memory, and then the light guttered, and he seemed as old and wasted as Gollum. Frodo squeezed his eyes shut tight against the illusion.

"But it seems that wasn't what it was at all." Sam stepped near and his fingers swept through the wet trails on Frodo's belly, and Frodo flinched, as though he could fling the touch off himself or sink through the bed and beyond.

Sam lifted his hand and studied his wet fingers. "This won't bear shunning by daylight." He sounded old and tired, and Frodo turned his face away, trembling. "Though I think you'd try it, if I let you." He hitched one hip up onto the bed, uninvited. "I don't quite know why you lie abed with your cock in your fist and my name on your lips, when you take so much care to keep me held off in the daylight with fine manners and excuses, so stiff I haven't seen the like since my Rosie and old Pearl Took shared the Great Smials for two seasons when I kept order for Thain Peregrin while he and Merry were off to Gondor. They had politeness in plenty, considering they despised one another as much as they did."

Frodo's whole body stiffened at the mention of Rose. "I would have my privacy now," he said, and the words hissed on his lips, his voice dried to dust.

Sam sighed. "Cover yourself if you don't want me looking, but I won't leave till we've had this out."

"I am not one of your endless brood of children, to be told off to do what suits you!" Frodo reached for the coverlet nonetheless and swept it over his belly, not caring that it would be stained.

"You aren't at that, though right now you're acting enough like it." Sam returned, sharp and quick. "You haven't changed a bit, Frodo, sorry though I am to see it! You always did hoard your misery to your heart and wallow in its increase, like you were a dragon jealous someone might steal a piece of treasure from you. Like Gollum with the Ring, you are, brooding over pain and counting it precious!"

Frodo's back stiffened, and he rolled away from Sam, curling his shoulders against the words. A bubble of rage was rising in his breast, and he struggled to contain it, knowing that he could not do so for long.

"I thought you took ship off to Valinor to be healed from that, and learn to live again-- or to die, one. But it seems you've done neither." Sam shifted, his clothes rustling, and the candle-holder settled on the table with a soft thump. "What, did you spend sixty years waiting to see if I'd follow, only to decide when I had that you aren't any more satisfied now than you were when you went?"

Pain laced through Sam's voice, and made it hollow. "I ought to have stayed home, where I knew I was loved, where I would have felt welcome, and where I'd have been no trouble to you. My Elanor was that grieved to see me go; she'd be grieved twice over to see me treated like a boarder, greeted as though I was the King's tax collector come to stay that you can't be rid of."

Frodo lay silent; his belly felt stretched and taut where his seed dried on his skin.

"And there you lie even now, with your back to me." Sam's voice threaded through the darkness, patient and sad. "Well, I reckon we'd go on like this for good, except I'm putting an end to it, Frodo. I haven't said so before, not wanting to seem ungrateful, but I already spoke to Gandalf about what I might do if I was wanting to go home, and he says I mustn't go back across the Sea, but a home I'll have nonetheless.

"The Elves knew what they were about to dig that smial for me next to my garden field. It's just the sort of place I can be content, far enough inland I won't have to sit all the day through, listening to the waves eating at the shore, the way they do here. I won't be near enough to trouble you, though I'll be close enough Bilbo can come visit me as often as he likes. And you, too, if you can stomach the sight of me."

Sam paused, and the night seemed thick with waiting, the very air still and heavy with the lingering heat of the day and the damp of the ocean, the curtains hanging motionless over the windows. Frodo quivered; wrath and despair were white-hot inside him, and he tasted blood where he had bitten his lip. But Sam had not finished. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh and heavy with pain. "I never expected to be welcomed as a lover, but I didn't think I had to question whether I'd still have your friendship. But you want both those things from a lad who's gone these sixty years, and neither from the old hobbit he's become, it seems. I'd have given you body and soul even before we went to Mordor, if you'd ever opened your heart to me. But you never gave me love. You didn't want to love me then, no more than you do now! I don't understand you, Frodo. We went through Mordor together!" Sam shook his head, his voice thick with pain and indignant bafflement as he finally ran out of words, his breath coming too fast.

The last slender threads that held Frodo's anger in check were snapped.

"We went through Mordor together." Frodo's voice rasped, like a snake slithering across cold stone. "You throw that in my face, after all the years you lived as master under hill? You say I never gave love to you? I gave you my gratitude already, and as for love, I loved you so much I gave you my home, my fortune, and my blessing. I gave you the life I might have led!" It was coming out; he was powerless to stop it.

"You come in to my home, and because I do not know at once how to be as we were then, you give me no peace. There is no time for me to think; there is no time for me to change or learn to know you again. I must be as you wish me, and I must be so now, or you will torment me until I go mad." He knew he was not being fair, but he could not stop.

"You come in to my home," Frodo spoke with brittle heat, and his voice rattled, dry and harsh in his throat. "A stranger of sixty years, you come in to my home and expect me to treat you as though we only parted yesterday, as though I still owe you more debt than I can repay! You come in as though you would take over the life I have built here. Was the one I gave to you in the Shire not enough? Do you think what I have here is yours by virtue of what you made of yourself there in imitation of me?"

The raw bubble of anger inside him had broken open and its poison came frothing forth; he did not give Sam time to use the breath he drew to answer. "My friends and what little family I have left take your part; they lecture me on my folly. You lecture me yourself, and you would have it that I am a poor host, making you unwelcome. Do you know what I think, Sam? If I am a poor host, then you are a worse guest! Here you are; you have come into my very bedroom just when I would have you be anywhere else."

Frodo's stomach churned and he thought he might retch. "Tell me, if I am acting like a child. Did you treat your children this way? Did your sons endure this wretched sort of gaffer's shaming in the night?"

Frodo sat up again and faced Sam, his hands knotted fists in the sheets, air whistling through his teeth. He no longer cared what Sam saw. Sam recoiled, his face twisted with guilt and distress. Fresh tears were welling in his eyes, but Frodo did not heed them.

"You ignore me when I ask you to leave, and here you stand, witness to my shame! You reach out and touch me uninvited, you show me my weakness on the ends of your fingers-- you show me the hope I lost, the life, the love and the strength and the courage; your very presence mocks me with what I have never had!" Frodo's voice had risen to a shout, and his breath rasped in his chest; he did not care who heard him.

"You.... you wish I had not come." Sam's voice cracked, and his eyes were swimming with tears.

"Yes!" Frodo's voice echoed so loudly that Bilbo dropped something in the next room. Glass tinkled faintly, and Sam sat frozen, looking as though he had been slapped. The silence stretched, thin and painful, until Frodo felt regret swell inside him.

"No." Frodo forced the confession out through gritted teeth, quieter. "I do not wish that, not really. But I...." he trailed away, his throat closing, and now that it was too late, words failed him.

"You wish you had never come," Sam said slowly, so softly Frodo could barely hear him. His head throbbed and a muscle in his jaw cramped, jumping painfully. He turned his head aside, unable to look at Sam, unable to deny what he had said, feeling hollow inside except for his loathing of himself. At last he nodded, shortly.

Sam sat quite still for a moment more, seeming stunned, gazing pensive into the flame of his candle. His fingers rubbed against the sheets, slow and clumsy, as though he would wipe away what he had done. But his eyes soon flickered up to seek Frodo's, and tears sparkled on his cheeks.

"There's naught in that I can mend, but I won't stay a burden to you: I'll be going, then. You know where I'll be, if you want me." The bed rocked as Sam rose, and his footsteps receded. They went inside Sam's room, and paused there only briefly; Frodo knew that he had gone in to fetch out the packet of papers that held his memories of his family. Then the quiet pad of his footsteps emerged and went down the hall, and out of the smial.

It was a long time before Frodo felt he could breathe again, the air heavy in his chest, smothering him, and longer still before he could roll on to his side and curl around the pain, rocking as though that would drive it away.

*****

When dawn found him lying red-eyed and wakeful, the subdued clatter of pans from the kitchen let him know Bilbo was still in the hole. He got up, not bothering to wash his face, and wandered out. Gandalf, as he had half suspected, was nowhere to be found. He would be with Sam then.

Sam's bread still sat in the bread-box, and Frodo's fingers went white on the lid. He closed it again softly and went to the kettle for tea.

Bilbo did not speak; he looked weary, with puffy circles under his eyes that revealed he had slept as little as Frodo. He avoided Frodo's gaze without making a show of it; there seemed little to say.

Outside, the weather was turning; ragged banks of clouds were moving in, dragging layers of grey across different levels of the sky, a sure sign of rain. The ocean mirrored the sky, shifting uneasily, with white-capped waves visible far out towards the horizon.

Frodo sipped his tea, staring out through the window; the change in the weather had come swift and unexpected, mirroring his mood.

Bilbo sighed, picking at his slice of salt-cured ham, and buttered a piece of cold bread, his eyes faraway. Frodo watched, feeling nervy and irritable, expecting the inevitable reproach, but it did not come. Bilbo finished his breakfast, belched politely behind his napkin and patted his chest, then gave Frodo a kindly nod.

"You needed to have that out, lad. Sam won't hold it against you." Bilbo lingered in the door, waiting, but Frodo did not respond. "It doesn't do to let such things fester away inside."

Frodo nodded imperceptibly, but it seemed to satisfy Bilbo. He took a mug of tea and went in to the study to be about his writing.

Frodo had a bit of the ham with a scone, then set about scrubbing the pans and the dishes, drying them, and putting them away. He could not go out on the bay with a storm brewing, so he looked about for something to do. The plump little pony was gone, possibly with Sam or Gandalf; the dog-cart had been put away neatly, and all was as tidy as could be wished.

He knew he would not be able to write, there was no need to bake, and it was too early to begin cooking the noon meal. He might hunt for driftwood for the fires, but the weather would keep him close to the smial.

Very well, better a soaking than sitting about ignoring the oliphaunt on the corner sofa.

Frodo put on a wet-weather jacket and went out, taking his hatchet and pulling a light sledge after him to load the wood upon. The wind drove a fine spatter of spray before it, and he turned up his collar. The waves were up, but the tide was still running out, and had not carried in much fodder for the fires. He set off up the beach anyhow, away from the stone slope where his pier lay; that way the wind would be to his back on the homeward journey.

The sand dragged at his feet, even when he went down far enough that the shallow fingers of the waves reached his toes; it was a measure of his weariness.

His sledge left two narrow ribbons of dark, cut sand behind him and his feet made irregular, wandering prints that ran between them. His mind was not on the beach, or the sea, or even the drift-wood he passed. Instead, all he could see was Sam: laughing at a jest, reciting a poem with his hands behind his back, weary and worn with ash in his hair, sitting at Frodo's bedside with tears welling in his eyes.

The wind picked up, roaring raggedly in his ears, and he turned aside from his path and began clumsily rolling a driftwood branch, nearly a log, towards his sledge. Whether Frodo had spoken in truth or whether he had spoken in folly, matters could not be left as they were. He owed Sam more than that-- and he cared for him, too, despite the long years that lay between them.

The thick branch was too heavy, so he took his hatchet out and began to chop, fierce heavy blows that shivered his hand and sang all the way up to his shoulder. Finally he had the heavy log in two, and he rolled the near half over-- only to find a perfect shell nested underneath, fair and delicate, of a kind he had rarely seen-- and never before more than a fragment. It looked almost like a comb, or perhaps a fish's bones.

The shell mingled shades of pale yellow and pearl white, and Frodo reached for it carefully, making sure not to damage the fragile thing-- he was glad he had not stepped on it, hidden in the surf; it would surely pierce even a tough-soled hobbit foot.

He turned it over gently in his hand, thinking ruefully how this seemed to capture the essence of his feelings for Sam-- delicate and hidden, fragile and beautiful, but dangerous to touch. He would give it to Sam, he decided, if he might do so unseen.

He set it aside carefully and finished cutting up the branch and loaded his sledge, then retrieved the shell and ducked into the harness. It began to rain, raw gusts of cold drops that stung his face, but there was a new energy in his step as he hauled his load of wood back up the beach, picking up the wood he had passed on his way down.

When he had dragged the sledge under the eaves, he let himself in and put the shell on his dressing-table. Then he fell into bed, and slept deeply for the first time in many days.


	6. Family

When Frodo awoke, it was still dark outside, and only the faint grey of false dawn showed on the horizon, so he rose from his bed and rapidly dressed, taking the shell and a bit of note-paper. He thought for a moment and wrote two words on the paper, then trotted out along the boardwalk and took the new fork into the valley, where the grass was trampled aside.

He made his way past the garden and into the yard; the growing light showed him a path to the door. White flagstones had been set for part of its length, and Frodo knew the Elves would see to laying more, if Sam did not want to do the work himself. As Frodo hesitated on the stoop, candlelight flared in one of the windows, and he shied from it, not wanting to confront Sam-- not so soon. He would let his written apology do the speaking, for the present.

There was a bench on the stoop, and he set his gift there, weighing the sheet of paper down with a handy stone. There was enough light now to read the words he had written: a simple "I'm sorry," and his initials.

Satisfied, he hurried back down the path and into the orchard, where he turned aside and climbed up to the top of the ridge, then made his way back to the little perch he had used before, where he might lie and wait with a view of the smial.

He was not disappointed; before he waited long Sam's front door opened, and Sam emerged in to the morning. He stretched and yawned, looking out at the day, but Frodo thought he looked dispirited, moving without much of his usual vigor. Then he turned and caught sight of the bench where the note awaited, a faint speck of white barely visible to Frodo.

Sam stood still for a long moment, then went to take it up. Frodo watched him read the paper first, and then pick up the shell. After a moment he took them both inside, closing the door behind him, and Frodo slipped away.

*****

The next afternoon when Frodo returned from his fishing, Bilbo nodded towards the kitchen table. A small basket waited there, full of lettuces and cucumbers. Neither grew well in the hot, sandy soil of their own yard.

Frodo sat down with a bump, his knees turned to water. For a moment he couldn't breathe, his relief was so keen. As he recovered, he became aware of Bilbo looking down at him kindly.

"He thought it best not to stay. But he said you and I are welcome to come visit him whenever we like."

Frodo nodded, finding his voice. "You must go, of course, whenever you want. He'll be quite lost, staying by himself after spending a lifetime in a smial full of children."

"I'll visit him often, and so will Gandalf and the Elves." Bilbo nodded gravely. "But I won't leave you and stay with him, Frodo, unless you wish it." He laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder and squeezed, reassuring.

Another knot unfastened itself in Frodo's belly, one that he hadn't even let himself consider. "Thank you, Bilbo," he managed, though his throat felt tight.

Bilbo nodded satisfaction and sat down across from Frodo, moving the basket aside. "We Bagginses have to stick together. You're my family, Frodo, and though I'm not a lass and children, I'm yours." There was uncertainty in his voice, though, and a little pain, and Frodo realized he had hurt his beloved uncle with his careless speech to Sam.

"Of course you are," he said hastily. "And you mean the world to me, Bilbo. I just...." He gestured helplessly. "I wonder how things would have been if the Ring had never come to us. Would you have married? Would I?"

"If the Ring had never come to me, I would have married, I think." Bilbo mused, looking faraway. "It was the done thing, and without the Ring-- and Gandalf, of course-- I should never have been Mad Baggins, or had adventures; I would have been considered quite a catch. As it was, well. I was more than a bit disreputable, if I may say, and I made no effort to overcome that notion. If anything, I did quite the opposite! But I would not have had a space in my home for you, Frodo, if I had married. And I would not trade you for it." He reached for Frodo's hand, and pressed it.

The tightness in Frodo's throat threatened to choke him. "I don't know what I would do," he admitted, unable to look his uncle in the eye. "I can't imagine my life without you in it, Bilbo. It would have been dreadful. But if my parents had lived...."

"Of course you wish they had lived," Bilbo replied stoutly. "And I wish they had too. But I think I would still have reached out to you, Frodo, and that you would have reached back. You were like a grain of wheat among the chaff there at Brandy Hall. You had spirit, my lad, and I would never have let that pass unnoticed." The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

"It's natural for you to wish for the family you lost, and the one you never made," he said softly. "I wish you could have had them, too. I thought you would reach for a family of your own once I was out of the way. But the Ring was too strong, of course. It left no room for that, whether we knew it or not."

"Sam traded his family for me," Frodo realized, and the pain of it hit him like a blow to the stomach. "He traded them to come here to me, and I pushed him away."

"He had a good many years with his family-- more than some hobbits." Bilbo didn't let go of Frodo's hand. "But yes. In the end, he did."

"It still has its roots set fast in me," Frodo said, his voice low. "The Ring, I mean. Reaching down the years like a curse, it still touches whatever I do. It poisons me, and all that I touch."

"Then stop letting it." Bilbo's hand tightened, and his eyes were sharp again, boring into Frodo with calm certainty. "Do not let it destroy the family you have, Frodo, or the one you could yet build for yourself, with a bit of work."

"You mean with Sam?" Frodo blinked at Bilbo, hesitant.

"No, I mean the Lady Galadriel wants to move in with us and raise a litter of your half-elven hobbitlings." Bilbo's eyes twinkled with fond exasperation. "Of course I mean Sam! He loves you, Frodo. He will forgive even this."

"But I don't think I can go to him, at least not yet." Frodo retrieved his hand and got up, pacing about the kitchen. "So many years, Bilbo. I hardly know him. I hardly know myself, even after all these years I've been given! Who am I, Bilbo?"

Bilbo sighed and looked at his hands for a long moment, lacing his hands together. "I can't answer that," admitted at last, reluctant. "But I hope you can answer it for yourself. Between star and sand, only you can look at yourself in the glass and know the answer."

Frodo caught sight of his reflection in the window-pane, looking half-wild and sad, his hair wind-tousled and wet with rain, and the reflection looked back. It had no answers, only the same questions. As he gazed he was reminded of a time long ago when he had looked at himself in the glass in Rivendell and seen new knowledge behind his eyes as he stood there looking back at himself, surprising and faintly strange.

He had seen much since then, much that was evil and terrible, but also much that was good, and he had done much likewise. But since that moment, the hobbit in the glass had become ever stranger to him, always more foreign: familiar, and yet unknown. He stepped forward and set his fingertips against the glass, and his reflection knew him and reached back; their hands touched, substance and shade.

"I will find you," he spoke to it, half-aloud. "I will learn who you are."

The shade spoke the words back to him in silence, and its jaw set. Defiant and somehow not, it lifted its mouth almost as though it waited to be kissed.

"That's my lad," Bilbo said, and his reflection joined Frodo's in the window, reaching out to set a hand upon its shoulder. Frodo felt the touch and leaned into it, glad of its comfort. "You've too much Baggins in you to give up."

Frodo very much hoped he was right.


	7. Circles

The next day when Frodo rose, he went about his usual routine with new awareness, taking time to consider and appreciate what he did-- and he found that there was rather more of it than he had thought. He always thought of Bilbo as the head of the house, just as it had been in the Shire, but in truth, it was Frodo now who did the business of keeping their small household running, and Bilbo who counted on him to provide most of the things they needed.

Frodo stood in the kitchen that evening looking about, watching Bilbo eat happily, and knew that he had gathered and chopped the wood for the cookfires, and that he had provided the food they would eat. He had arranged the dishes on the shelves, having brought them from Kortirion soon after they arrived; he had done most of the cooking and the serving. He would do the lion's share of the tidying as well, and the laundering, and milking the goats. The smial had been arranged and decorated by him, to his liking, and he kept it well.

With these thoughts in his mind, Frodo realized anew that he had been a fool to fear Sam's hard-earned abilities would show Frodo as lacking somehow. Perhaps he had simply been too busy to realize exactly how busy he was, and how much of a life he had! It was not a powerful one, to be sure, but it was full and satisfying. The very ache in Frodo's shoulders from chopping wood, and the muscle in his arms, proved that. And now Frodo had knowledge of every item in his stores, and how to get more; he knew what to do when Bilbo was ill, or when a storm threatened, or when the well ran dry. He was far more competent at running a household than he had ever been when he relied on Bilbo, and later on Sam, in the Shire.

Frodo smiled ruefully. He had become a very good provider for Bilbo, that was certain. But it rankled that after sixty years in Valinor, he had only become as competent as Sam had been at twenty in the Shire! There must be something more that Frodo had done, or could do; hesitant, he reported his findings to Bilbo.

"But there is more, my dear boy." Bilbo reached for his hand and patted it kindly, reassuring. "You are more fluent in Quenya now than I am; you know the names and the ways of all the things in the sea and on the shore. You seek things and find them; you talk to Gandalf and to the Elves about them. Your mind is alive, Frodo, and awake to knowing! And as for measuring yourself against other hobbits, you can handle that boat of yours better than any hobbit I can think of ever dreamed of doing, even the bargemen who worked on the Brandywine."

"But it isn't enough," Frodo fretted. "I mean, it is enough to keep me busy, and more. But when I look at it, even as I am surprised to find how much there is...." he trailed away, raising the palms of his hands helplessly. "It is as if these things I do take me out of me," he said slowly. "They make me forget myself, for a time. And pleasant though that can be, where are the things that put me in myself, Bilbo? The things that make me more myself?"

Bilbo looked away; he cleared his throat, a gruff harumph. "I should have said family took care of that service for you, Frodo, but perhaps I overestimated my own worth in that."

Frodo winced, knowing that he had hurt his uncle with his careless words to Sam. "But you have," he said. "You were not a wife or a child, certainly, but I would not trade you for either-- or both."

Bilbo laughed, rueful. "You say that never having had either-- and even I can't tell you their worth, lad. Perhaps Sam could."

Frodo bit his lip. "I am sure he could, but I can only tell you this: without you, I would certainly have given up and let the Ring sickness take me after we arrived here."

"That's true enough, I daresay." Bilbo looked at Frodo kindly, his fingers caressing the bowl of his pipe, searching the clay for burrs. Then he fumbled for his pouch. "You weren't well, my dear boy. We worried for you constantly."

"You and Gandalf were my family then-- as you are now."

"We are your family, and we aren't." Bilbo sighed a bit, tapping tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with his forefinger. "Your truest family is the one you choose for yourself, and the one that you make for yourself."

"We chose one another."

"Perhaps we did, and perhaps we didn't." Bilbo lit his pipe and sent a speculative smoke-ring drifting towards the ceiling. "We have served each other as family in every way we could, my boy, but still..." he shook his head. "Two old hobbits in a smial do not a family make."

"Perhaps not, but we do." Frodo lifted his chin, stubborn. "I should not have said what I did, Bilbo; it wasn't fair to you."

"Maybe not. But you meant it; I heard you." He puffed again on his pipe. "I think we were meant to be as we were, Frodo. Could I have gone with Thorin and the others to the Lonely Mountain, leaving a pretty young wife behind? Would I have been able to leave the Shire for Rivendell, and leave the Ring to you, if a large family and my responsibilities to it had tied me down? Could you have taken up the quest and left a babe at home? I think not. Family and not family at all, you and I were the best available bearers for the Ring. Ideal, really-- for what the world needed, if not for ourselves. It was meant to be as it was."

"You have been among the Elves too long; you're beginning to talk in circles." Frodo smiled in spite of himself.

"And life runs in circles." Bilbo jabbed the stem of his pipe at Frodo. "Certainly the Elves know that, even if they think the cycles are rather longer than your average hobbit might credit." Bilbo looked at the fire for a long time, so long that he grew drowsy and nodded, his pipe going cold, and Frodo thought he would not speak again, but at last he did.

"We laugh at the notion of circles," Bilbo said abruptly, his voice low and thoughtful. "But they are fearsome nonetheless; even the trees must fear the winter when leaf-fall comes." Then he subsided, and soon he was asleep.

Frodo went to him and covered him with a woven throw, tucking it in, and settled a pillow under his aged head. He took Bilbo's pipe and tapped out the dottle, then set the pipe within Bilbo's reach upon the end-table. He returned to his seat and looked at Bilbo soberly; his uncle was one leaf whose fall he would desperately mourn.

At last, the wine-bottle empty and the fire sinking low, Frodo took himself off to bed and dreamed of trees with golden leaves, each leaf falling to drift on the wind and wheeling through the air, moving too quickly for him to catch them all.

The next day there was much to do, and the day after; Gandalf visited on occasion, and often Bilbo went to visit for an afternoon with Samwise. The accounts he brought back with him had Sam's farmstead thriving.

Though Frodo listened to his uncle's words with great attention, he truly did not need them. Not meaning to, he had nevertheless found himself making a habit of returning frequently to his ridge-top perch, making sure to vary his path so that the worn grass did not reveal his whereabouts. While he lay there, he would drink from a skin of water or a bottle of wine. Sometimes he watched ladybird-beetles climb to the top of grass-stems and fly away; other times he lay on his back and watched the clouds, or slept; mostly he lay hidden and watched Sam at work in his vast garden-fields.

For work Sam did, and Frodo thought often of Bilbo's words about family, wondering how Sam fared after losing his. But lest he worry that Sam felt abandoned, he was relieved to see how often Sam had companions in his work; Frodo saw Elves helping him nearly every day, or heard their clear speech or song carried to him on the wind.

But after a time, the day came when Sam had no companions, and Frodo watched as he set posts in holes dug ready the day before, then labored to set other posts as cross-bars atop them. He apparently meant to tie strings to the cross-bars and let his bean vines climb upon them. It was not a job for one hobbit, but Sam kept at it stubbornly; as often as not, once he had set a cross-bar atop its posts and tried to drive in the peg to fasten it to one of them, the blows of his hammer shivered it off the neighbor post, and he had to shift his ladder, climb up, and place it again-- all at risk of harm to the bean seedlings below.

The sight of his wasted labor hurt Frodo's heart. Without letting himself think of pride, he crept down from his perch and made his way slowly through the orchard, where grass was green and cherry trees were in flower, with glowing white petals drifting down like snowflakes in the Sun.

"Drat the things!" He could hear Sam's exclamation and sigh, and then Sam himself appeared through the branches. He tossed his hammer down and wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve. He continued, grumbling to himself. "Always Elves about when you need them, excepting today, and these won't wait!"

Indeed they wouldn't; the beans were sending long green shoots trailing over the ground, and some had begun to tangle together at their tips, but not so badly yet that they might not be teased apart and trained to climb strings. In another day, though, they would be inseparable.

Frodo stepped forward, hesitant, and not looking at Sam, he picked the hammer up off the green. As Sam looked down at him, blinking with surprise and wariness, he handed it up and then went to the other post. Picking up the cross-bar, he stretched tall on his toes, just managing to perch it atop the post and hold it there. After a moment, Sam's steady hammer-blows resumed, and Frodo felt them shiver through the cross-bar, but his hands were there to steady it and keep it in place.

They moved down the field without speaking, and still Frodo evaded Sam's eye. They soon found a rhythm and settled into it, the hot sun making Frodo wish for his hat. Sam had none either, and it occurred to Frodo that he might not know the craft of making them, which Frodo himself had won only with great effort and many pains.

When they were done setting cross-bars, they went back along the row and Frodo quietly cut and handed up lengths of twine as Sam stood on the ladder and tied them at intervals, and then he helped to gently untangle the vines and encourage them towards the strings that waited, carefully wrapping string and vine together.

While he was tending the last plant, he was conscious of Sam's gentle regard on him, and he felt the nervous tension that had held itself in abeyance all the morning return, quivering almost unbearably in his nerves. He was keenly conscious of the way Sam's shirt had plastered itself to the sweat on his broad shoulders, closely following the curve and ripple of muscle and bone there. As he straightened, Sam spoke, his voice quiet and kind.

"Will you stay to eat?"

"No, I'd best be getting back to Bilbo." Frodo took a hasty step away, backing towards the orchard.

Sam subsided with a quiet nod, and watched Frodo as he backed another step or two. Then Frodo bolted, darting away and not stopping until he made it back to his own beachside smial.

There Bilbo waited, proud of having prepared a simple luncheon of bread-and-butter and stewed carrots he had gathered from their own little garden. "How is Samwise?"

Frodo rolled his eyes; perhaps the very gulls had trumpeted the news of his whereabouts. Of course the Elves had made themselves absent to encourage him to come down and lend a hand to Sam in the garden. "Well enough," he said without offering expansion on the theme.

He did not go back for a handful of days, but he did go out to the marshes and cut reeds, which he laid on the board-walk to dry and then wove together into a makeshift hat that Sam might wear to keep the Sun off. When it was finished, once more he made a pre-dawn pilgrimage to the little smial and up on to the porch, leaving the hat on Sam's bench. The next time he went to watch Sam in the gardens, it was on Sam's head.

Frodo could not quite have said how he found enough time in his day to slip away more often than not and watch Sam go about his gardening, but he did nevertheless, drawn like iron to a lodestone. Perhaps his spare time was owed to the assistance of the produce Sam sent from his incoming bounty, which meant Frodo and Bilbo need no longer spend hours at tending their meager garden in the sand.

But if there was assistance from Sam, then Frodo provided Sam with assistance, too. Beginning with the straw hat, he moved on to provide frequent gifts of fresh fish or crabs, left swimming in a bucket on Sam's porch for Sam to find when he emerged; sometimes he even sent along shellfish or shrimps and written instructions for their preparation.

Bilbo went to visit Sam as well, sometimes carrying gifts and sometimes not. Sam's arrival had spurred him to greater activity; once or twice he even made the trip on foot, hobbling off leaning on his stick, on rare days when the weather was fine and cool. Frodo took the dog-cart after him each time and brought him home in it, listening to Bilbo's tales of the day.


	8. Brandy

Eventually Frodo began to be bored with sitting and watching Sam from his perch; when he felt thus, he would often creep down to watch Sam from the orchard. Most of those times he ended up slipping out to lend a hand at whatever tasks there were to be done. Sam welcomed him with a smile and nod each time, and they wordlessly fell in to working, each lending a hand where the other needed, rarely needing speech. Slowly the discomfort and the strain ebbed from their meetings, and a sort of quiet truce came to pass between them. After a time, Frodo came to find ease in the companionship with Sam, and began to grow used to his aged face, which no longer seemed as fearsome and strange as it once had.

After he accepted that Frodo would not agree to linger after working to come in for a drink or a bite, Sam took to bringing a skin of water or a bit of meat pasty and a bottle of wine out to the garden for them before he started in the morning. Confronted with Sam sitting down and reaching for the water-skin or the wine bottle, Frodo felt too awkward to leave. Clumsily at first, and then with growing ease, he accepted what was offered and ate sitting just a little apart, stealing glances at Sam whenever Sam did not seem to be looking. After a time, he began to bring provisions of his own, so that he might contribute to the meal they shared together.

Whoever Frodo might be, he understood more deeply every day that he could not live contentedly with Sam remaining for ever over the hills and far away; a day spent without sight of his friend was a day that felt empty and drab, as though something precious had been missed.

"I need to be about picking the tomatoes before the rain," Sam began to muse when Frodo was with him, as though to himself. Or perhaps he would take a drink of wine and say, "I should cut the cabbages to-morrow."

When Sam said such things, Frodo often found himself lingering the entire afternoon to help, reaching deep inside the cages that held the rank, pungent-smelling tomato vines and coming out with his hands full of warm red globes that tasted much better there in the garden than anywhere else, eaten fresh with just a bit of the salt that Sam had brought outdoors with him. Or perhaps he would find himself returning in the morning to cut cabbages with his knife in his pocket and a burlap sack over his shoulder.

After a time, however, that no longer felt entirely satisfactory to him either. He thought of consulting with Bilbo on what to do, but then again, he was his own master. So the next day when he went for his usual morning's work with Sam, he was nervous and jumpy, which did not escape Sam's notice.

Much sooner than usual they went and took their seats in the orchard, where the Elves had thoughtfully placed benches and a table for them underneath an apple tree that had already grown tall and straight, with fine arching boughs. "It's baking day the day after to-morrow, and I've a great deal of wood to gather and chop," Frodo mumbled aloud when he had finished his meat-pie and had a swallow of wine.

Sam's eyes darted up to seek his and Frodo felt himself turn crimson; he suddenly found it extraordinarily interesting to uproot and turn over a bit of stone with a stray stick.

"I can't say as I have much to do to-morrow, provided I finish cutting the asparagus." Sam addressed himself to the wine.

That was all that was said, but when Frodo woke the next morning and went out to harness himself to the sledge, he heard the tapping of a silver-shod walking-stick and looked up to find Sam coming down the walk, his stick in one hand and an axe slung over his shoulder. Frodo nodded to him, self-conscious, and drew the sledge out of its little storage shed. Sam propped his axe against the wall and followed Frodo down towards the beach.

"We'll pick it up on our way back," Frodo stopped him from trotting to fetch the first branch they passed.

"That makes sense, that does!" Sam blinked a bit, then a smile wreathed his face. "I shouldn't have thought of it myself."

Frodo's heart pounded at the sweetness in Sam's smile, familiar to him for as long as he could remember in spite of Sam's worn, lined face, and he quickened his pace hastily, but as they walked, he gradually calmed. Whenever he looked behind them down the beach, he could see Sam's footprints flanking the channels cut by the sledge and matching the dots left by his own feet. When he looked to his side, Sam was there himself, perhaps using his stick to turn over a bit of shell or just looking about the beach thoughtfully, his face shaded by the brim of the hat Frodo had made for him.

Frodo turned away hastily when Sam would have met his eye, but he could not restrain his smile.

They walked a long way down the beach before turning back, Frodo answering Sam's occasional curious question about the plants and birds they passed, but at last Frodo judged they had gone past enough wood to turn around and gather it.

As they began to pick up wood and load the sledge, Frodo was glad of Sam's strength. When the wind moaned hollowly between the dunes and made a mournful hiss in the grasses, he was grateful for Sam's company. And after they had loaded a large pile of branches aboard, when he struggled to start the heavy sledge, he was not surprised when Sam carefully lifted the rope and slipped underneath it, coming up at Frodo's side.

Frodo made room for him, and their hands settled together on the leather breast-band as they leaned into the traces, the two of them making easy work of a load too heavy for one. Frodo could feel the warmth of Sam's sturdy shoulder pressed against his own, and he schooled his face to an earnest, oblivious expression and kept pushing until they were in the yard and Sam ducked back under the rope, reaching for his axe.

Frodo's flesh remembered that warm pressure as they chopped up the wood, Sam with his axe and Frodo with his smaller hatchet, and as they stacked it together.

"Come inside, lads, and have a bite to eat," Bilbo called them. Sam gave Frodo a hesitant glance, but whatever he saw seemed to reassure him, for he accepted. They sat down to bread of a kind Frodo knew Sam had never had before, made of meal ground from the fat yellow kernels of a kind of grain the elves had planted in his garden, but which had not yet come to maturity. Bilbo served it with plenty of fresh butter, green beans, and salted pork.

Sam complimented Bilbo after trying the bread, his face bright with pleasure at the taste, and Bilbo happily gave him the simple instructions for making it. Sam glanced at Frodo after he spoke up, a little diffident, not seeming to know whether he was allowed to converse with them or not. Frodo felt quite ashamed of having reduced his confident, well-spoken Sam to uncertainty and silence.

"I'll bring you a sack of meal after my next trip to Kortirion," he said without thinking, and Sam's nervous look dissolved into a sunny smile.

"That would be a fine thing," he thanked Frodo with a nod. "And I didn't know you kept pigs." He cut a wedge of bread and helped himself to butter.

"There are a few Elves who keep them." Frodo shrugged.

"We've often thought of having a sty of our own, but then there would be the butchering, and the curing, and a great deal of fuss and bother." Bilbo frowned at the prospect.

"We could do it," Frodo argued mildly.

"You could at that, but I can see Bilbo's point," Sam remarked diplomatically, with his mouth mostly full.

"Even if we could manage to cure the meat, there's the smell to be endured, Frodo lad." Bilbo looked earnestly at Frodo, appealing to his sense of reason.

"Even Elvish pigs have a smell?" Sam laughed.

"Not so much as they would if we kept them." Frodo found himself chuckling too. "But they do, yes. This is why I would build our sty down-wind."

"Or down-wind and behind a ridge," Sam mused, and Frodo knew if he left it at that, there would likely be pigs housed on Sam's farmstead in short order. He chuckled ruefully.

"You'll bite off more than you can chew, if you don't stop adding new chores left and right," he admonished. "Don't add a sty on our account. We can do very well with what we trade for in Kortirion."

"Perhaps I won't, at that." Sam gave in gracefully. "Though that garden is a sight less work than you'd think, what with the weeds not growing in it, and the grass never needing to be mowed."

"I've done enough work in that garden to know what a task it is to keep up with only the planting and the harvesting," Frodo was surprised to hear himself conversing with Sam so easily. "And the watering, too, from time to time."

"Nothing's too hard to manage with a bit of help," Bilbo commented with a wink, and Frodo rolled his eyes, which made Sam choke down a laugh.

"I'd best be going." He chased a last bean and a crumbled bit of bread around his plate with his fork. "The garden won't tend itself, as you're reminding me, and I'm expecting Gandalf to supper."

"Bilbo, you should go and join them. I have to check my fishing lines, but I can come for you later." Frodo put down his napkin and pushed back his plate.

"If you're sure, Frodo lad." Bilbo looked at him seriously.

"Of course I am."

"You're welcome too, if you finish in time to come along." Sam added the invitation quietly.

"Thank you." Frodo felt himself color. "Perhaps I may, but you shouldn't wait."

He had dough to make and then set out to rise, so he didn't make it to supper, but he arrived in time to pick Bilbo up before the Moon rose. He found his uncle sitting with Sam and Gandalf sat on the porch, the three of them sipping from glasses of brandy poured out of a bottle Gandalf had brought for making plum-cake. They were merry, singing and blowing smoke-rings as Frodo drew the cart up the path. Bilbo held a cloth-wrapped bottle of wine and was in good spirits, though he was a bit tipsy from the fiery liquor, and it took both Frodo and Sam to get him up and bundled into the cart.

Frodo found himself talking quite naturally to Samwise as they got Bilbo settled, as though there had never been difficulty in finding words between them. He noticed that made Gandalf's eyes crinkle in a smile as he watched them, and he flushed a bit, struggling with a faint sense of shame and bruised pride.

"It would almost be easier to keep him here," Sam puffed a bit. "Seeing as how he's had a bit too much brandy. How ever will you get him out again and into bed?"

"I'll walk with them, I think," Gandalf cleared his throat. "And help him into bed, if I must."

"The next time he's too deep in his cups, I'll let him stay, if it's all the same to you." Frodo wiped his brow. The night was fine and hot, and the sea-breeze was cut off by the dunes and had not made it into the valley to flush away the day's heat.

"Shall I come and bring a plum-cake for you after I make them to-morrow?" Sam asked, then fell silent; Frodo could see him biting his lip.

"Of course," he said, and his heart gladdened with relief as he understood he meant it. "We'll be glad of a visit." Suddenly shy, he ducked into the harness of the dog-cart and started to trundle it away, with Gandalf keeping pace at the side.

"You have been much absent," Frodo said to the old wizard when they had passed into the marsh. Bilbo was humming and singing to himself happily in the cart, oblivious. "I trust that means I've chosen well enough."

"As if I have no other business to attend than hobbits!" Gandalf huffed, but Frodo could tell he was well-pleased. "If it suits you sometime soon, Frodo, you should show Sam how to get the things he needs in Kortirion. Many of the Elves there speak the Westron tongue, but there are some who don't. You can show him who he should go to, and where. Sam will feel more secure in his home if he doesn't have to rely on the kindness of others to bring him the things he can't grow."

"I should have done it before," Frodo acknowledged. "He was speaking of raising pigs earlier; I daresay a bit of bacon and ham in the pantry would help to put his mind at ease."

"He needs a cow, too, or milking-goats." Gandalf observed. "I think a cow would be just the thing, Frodo. You should be able to get one, if you ask in the right places."

"I know just the Elf to ask," Frodo agreed. "We may have to go farther than Kortirion to get a cow, though." The thought made him fidget; Kortirion was a day's trip, and sometimes Frodo stayed overnight. If they had to go further, in through the Pass of Light to the farms where animals were kept, they would definitely have to camp on the road, perhaps even twice.

Gandalf looked at him with sympathy. "You are still not easy in your mind, I see, but you have come far in a short time." He bent his head graciously to Frodo. "I will see to it that a cow is brought to Kortirion, so that you need only lead it back."

"Thank you." Frodo colored. They pulled up next to the little smial and Frodo lifted the harness over his head. "You're welcome to stay, of course, once we have him inside. And perhaps you and I can have a nip of that brandy."

Gandalf laughed, reaching to steady Bilbo's shoulder as he lurched towards the edge of the cart. "I wondered at you missing it. It's a good thing I brought Samwise a few extra bottles, or there would be no plum-cake to be had, what with the three of you drinking up all the liquor!"

Frodo grunted, catching most of Bilbo's weight, more than half of it on his left foot. "Ouch! Bilbo, you're as heavy as a sack of stones." Frodo managed to get a shoulder under Bilbo's and an arm around his back. "How long has it been since you had anything stronger than wine? No, don't tell me."

Together he and Gandalf hauled Bilbo into the smial and poured him into bed, then came out to sit under the eaves in the breeze. Frodo put down the little glasses he had brought, heaved a heavy sigh, and mopped his brow; even the ocean wind felt hot. Heat lightning flickered on the distant horizon, showing the looming sides of tall, billowing clouds drifting far away over the sea.

"I should warn you there will be a number of fierce storms this season," Gandalf spoke after he had his pipe going, calling flame with a word. "More so than usual, I am afraid. The Men of the South in Middle Earth have been sailing farther and farther abroad seeking new territory as Aragorn sends his men to reclaim Gondor's ancient lands, and they are not good stewards of the land or anything in it. They kill fish for sport, and they dump their refuse in the sea. Ulmo is displeased, and so Ossë will have his way with them for a time."

"Will we have warning?"

"A day-- or more, when we can manage it. Enough to close up the house and move the goats." Gandalf puffed on his pipe as Frodo reached for the bottle and poured. "Brandy and smoke always go well together, don't you think?" He accepted the glass and set it to his lips. "Bilbo is looking well. And you are, too."

"Sam has brought Bilbo something he's long missed," Frodo admitted quietly, tasting his own brandy. It lit a low flame in his belly. "Hobbits are creatures of comfort, and very social. We need others of our own kind."

"Very true." Gandalf leaned against the wall and crossed his long legs at the ankle, making himself comfortable, and blew a smoke ring, which hovered in the air, faintly silver. "Though I am surprised to hear you say it."

Frodo chuckled, a little rueful. "You have known all along that I needed Sam, even as I tried to prove to myself that I did not."

"Sam still does not know it. But I trust you will let him know when you are ready."

Frodo nodded and shifted uneasily. "We are always so sober and grim lately," he said. "Tell me of something merry."

"Celebrían has given birth to a son," Gandalf replied. "Though merry tales of families may not be entirely to your liking. Elrond will want you and Bilbo to come to his house and meet the child; he will be feasting his friends soon to celebrate."

"That will suit Bilbo wonderfully well," Frodo smiled. "He will be glad to hear of it. It is unusual, isn't it, for Elves to have children after so long a time together?"

"Elrond is but half-Elven, and he and Celebrían were parted many years-- and they left a child behind in Middle-Earth, as you well know." Gandalf's pipe glowed, lighting up his long nose and touching his mustache with crimson. "And she was grievously hurt in body and mind before she sailed long ago. She needed this for her healing, as did he."

"I am glad for them." The tale of the birth had made him think of Sam and of Rose, and he remembered how proud Sam had been of Elanor, as he held her for the first time. It also made him think of Bilbo, and understand anew what the old hobbit had meant. "A new circle of life has begun."

"Yes," Gandalf agreed, and sipped again at his brandy. They sat there in quiet companionship for a long time, blowing smoke rings that vanished into the breeze. At last they went in and Frodo sought his bed, his mind working at plans for the journey he and Sam must take together.


	9. Mud

The morning dawned fine and hot, and Bilbo rose rather later than the Sun. He was a little grumpy, for he had a nasty morning head, but Gandalf's presence was handy, and he soon cured all. At last Frodo could begin his baking.

He liked kneading dough; it made his shoulders ache in a satisfying way. With the ovens lit, he soon shed his shirt and wore only breeches as he labored. Gandalf went out to sit in the shade, where the wind blew away the worst of the heat, but Bilbo stayed indoors to nurse his head, looking at Frodo speculatively.

"I suppose you've more on your mind than morning head," Frodo said at length, up to his elbows in flour.

Bilbo sat in thought for a moment, his gnarled old hands wrapped around his mug of weak tea. "I was remembering what we said when we spoke before, about how a hobbit needs his family to be happy. But there is more, Frodo; there are more ways to happiness, and I think you have found one, even if you don't know it."

Frodo blinked at him, then sneezed, turning hastily away from the bread. "What is that, do you think?"

I once read a book in Elrond's library," Bilbo said slowly, "that said forgetfulness is the path to wisdom, and to happiness-- that we are the sum of what we achieve when we do all the things that make us forget we exist while we do them. It said we are most ourselves when we forget even our own troubles, or our pains, to the heart's ease. The book said we connect with all the world when we forget ourselves, and work in harmony with it. It doesn't matter if we work to do things for the sake of their own beauty, or to do service for others; when all have enough to live happily, those two things are equally worthwhile."

Frodo laughed, rueful, and tried to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "A very Elven sort of thought, that is."

Bilbo clucked with disapproval and got up, coming over to Frodo and fishing his handkerchief out of his pocket, then holding it for him to blow his nose and tidying it away.

"It's very Elven, and not at all practical." Bilbo smiled when that was finished. "And we hobbits are nothing if not practical, I know." He went back to his chair and tipped it back against the wall, reaching for his pipe. "A handy fellow to have around in a pinch, Gandalf is. After a drop of this herb tea, I could almost imagine I never had brandy at all." He took another sip, and then set it aside, reaching for his tobacco-pouch. "But think of it, Frodo. Why do the Elves and the Maiar work? Why do the Valar labor?"

Frodo considered that, and realized he did not know, unless it was to make beautiful things for their own sake. But Bilbo was continuing, expounding on his idea; the old hobbit loved to hear himself talk. "They don't have to eat to live, you know. The elements do not harm them; if they are naked in the snow, it doesn't make them sick or kill them. They make clothes to wear because the clothes are beautiful and to wear them is more comfortable than not. "

Frodo nodded; to one who had lived for long in Valinor, these things were evident.

Bilbo continued. "They eat because it is a pleasure to do so-- and it is a way for them to show their gratitude to Ilúvatar by appreciating the things that were made in the Great Singing. They work because craftsmanship is joyous. It is an art to raise food; it is a craft to build homes and paths and to make beautiful carvings or songs. That too is a form of giving praise to Ilúvatar, I think-- to make something worthy of enjoyment is to show how they wish to be like him." He tamped pipe-weed into the bowl and went to the stove for a light.

"That's all very well for the Elves," Frodo protested, fetching out a bowl for his latest loaf. "But hobbits have to wear clothes because we sicken and die in the cold weather or burn under the Sun, and we eat because we must, to live."

"But there are pleasures to be had in those things, even for hobbits," Bilbo pointed out, gesturing significantly with his pipe. "You could keep warm with a rough woolen horse blanket, Frodo, but instead you like to wear silks and brocades with fine-woven cotton cloth next to your skin. You eat fish, not slugs and snails, and you aren't Gollum; you cook the fish and put butter and a pinch of dill on it before you eat it! If anything, coming to know Gollum should have showed you the difference between survival and living, Frodo." He reached and lit a taper on the coals, and drew the flame in to the bowl, puffing forth clouds of smoke.

Bilbo was clearly not finished, and Frodo kept silent, waiting for him to light the pipe to his satisfaction and then talk himself out. Soon the pipe was ready, and Bilbo resumed his seat-- and his oratory. "And, Frodo, you go out on the bay not only to catch fish, but to watch the gulls wheel in the sky, and to look down in to the water and see what is there. You bring shells and pearls home not because they are useful, but because you admire them-- and many's the time our smial has smelled of rotting fish, after, until you learned to spread them outside first for a week or two, and have the ants pick them clean!"

Bilbo chuckled and drew on his pipe, which was going well now. He exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. "There is an art even to that, Frodo. There is an art to everything under the sun. For something to be worth doing is for it to be worth doing well, and to do something well is to make it worthwhile! And to do something is to make it a part of you, and to make yourself a part of it."

"That much is true," Frodo granted. "Though it's not at all comfortable to think that when you're eating this bread, you'll be eating me!"

Bilbo chuckled. "It does seem odd, when you think of it that way." He sat there for a few minutes, deep in thought, and then shook himself, rousing. "Perhaps it's all folly; I don't know. But it's magnificent folly, nonetheless, and sounds well on the tongue! At any rate, I had better go out and entertain Gandalf. A host's responsibilities, don't you know."

Frodo nodded agreement; he needed a little quiet time to think about what his uncle had said. He dampened a cloth to drape over the rising dough and sprinkled new flour on the board, glancing out the window and wondering what Sam would think of Bilbo's talk.

The clouds were still looming in the east, piled so high their tops blew off in wide, flat layers, a testament to Gandalf's warning. They were lovely, but they made the day seem heavy and wet, and Frodo made sure to drink plenty of tea as he worked.

He heard a tap on the door and elbowing into his shirt, he went to answer, expecting Sam. He was not disappointed. As promised, Sam held a plum cake wrapped in a cloth; he must have started baking far earlier than Frodo, who still had several lumps of dough rising in bowls. After all, Frodo reasoned, Bilbo had not delayed Sam; he'd probably begun well before dawn.

"It's fair hot in here," Sam puffed as he stepped in. Frodo got him a plate, and he set down the brandy-soaked plum-cake atop it, pushing it to the center of the table. "I reckon you had a bit of trouble getting Bilbo up so you could start?"

"That brandy packs an impressive punch," Frodo chuckled. "I'm going to ration his share of your cake." It seemed easier to talk to Sam now, somehow, since they had spoken freely the day before.

"The Valar know how to make a proper strong brew, it seems." Sam watched Frodo turn a loaf out of its bowl on to a floured slab. Sam was already perspiring in the heat, a gleaming drop tracing its way down from his temple to his throat, and from there to his collar. But Sam did not seem to notice; his eyes were fixed on Frodo-- or more precisely, on Frodo's shirt, which hung open.

Noticing Frodo's attention, Sam hastily looked away. Frodo realized they had both been transfixed, staring at one another, and he quickly turned his attention back to his loaf, forming it into three ropes and braiding them, making them ready to be laid on the pan. He brushed the loaf with beaten egg and put it aside, then made two others and set them aside to dry as well. He would give them all another coat before he popped them in the oven, and he wanted to cook as much as possible all at once.

The next loaves were plain in shape, but he rolled them in seeds after he put on the egg-wash. Sam sat quietly, watching, and Frodo wondered what he would have done differently-- perhaps nothing, as he did not speak. Frodo brushed some with egg, some with oil, some with salt, and left others plain--and at last he had ten loaves more or less ready.

When he had put the final touches on all the loaves, he hurriedly put them in the oven and then turned back to Sam, mopping his face. "They'll be a time. Let's go out where it's cooler," he suggested. He usually took a swim after baking, but Sam would probably not like to do that.

Sure enough, Sam went to join Bilbo and Gandalf, who had gone down from the smial to the beach. Frodo smiled to see Gandalf, dignified and robed in white, sitting cross-legged upon the sand. After a few minutes of polite conversation Frodo excused himself.

"I have been sweating all morning, and to be properly courteous to you all, I should have a swim, the better to spare your noses," he said.

"Suit yourself then, Frodo." Bilbo flapped a hand at him cordially, as though to wave away his scent, and Frodo laughed at him, then went padding down the beach until he could no longer hear their conversation. After a moment's hesitation he shed his shirt, and then his breeches, stripping down to his underclothing. The water was not cold, but it felt heavenly when he walked into the surf, washing the sweat and weariness from his limbs, and when he felt quite relaxed, he returned to the shore and sat on the sand where the waves could reach his feet. Sighing, he stretched himself and sat watching as the tide slowly rolled in and out.

Sam had been looking at him, and would be stealing glimpses even now; he had very clearly seen the flash of Sam's eyes when he leaned forward to knead the dough and his shirt hung open. The thought made the tips of his fingers tingle, and all his bare skin felt alive under the caress of the ocean breeze.

He sank a little in the sand as an unusually strong wave washed around his body. He and Sam should go to Kortirion right away, he decided, before the storm season was well begun. Though Gandalf had brought only vague warning, the storm clouds massing on the horizon and drifting eastward, only to be replaced by more, promised little peace during the high summer months.

"There's a mighty storm brewing. I'd not want to be out boating in it." Sam had come over while he was musing, and he sank down near Frodo, but a little behind, so as to be out of reach of the waves.

"Gandalf says the weather will be especially harsh this season. We will want to provision ourselves." Frodo hesitated. "Perhaps you'd like to go in to Kortirion with me in a day or two, and we can see to the arrangements." His heart beat hard, and he was keenly conscious of the shine of his own skin in the sunlight. He could almost feel Sam's eyes caress him.

"I'd like that." Sam hesitated. "If you don't mind, of course."

"No, not at all. I need to go, and how better to manage things than for you to go along?" Frodo shifted, feeling shame in addition to consciousness of self. As long as he and Sam had worked side by side without speaking often, he had not felt the weight of his need to apologize more fully for the harshness of his candor in their argument, but now....

He looked sidelong at Sam, who was burying his toes in the sand and then pushing it up in little tumbled hills on top of them. "If you want, we'll get a bucket and go out on the tidal flats, or perhaps back into the marsh, and dig for clams."

"All right," Sam agreed, though he spared a mistrustful look at the surf.

Frodo rinsed himself and put on his breeches, then took his shirt in his hand and they went back to the smial, where he fetched out the clam-buckets. They made Sam blink; he picked one wide, deep bucket up and examined the stout wooden sides and the holes drilled in its bottom. "Won't we need a shovel?"

"We shouldn't." Frodo smiled at the look of bafflement on his face. "I'll show you." He paused for a moment, trying to seem offhand when he spoke again. "You'll probably want to take off that white shirt."

Sam did so quietly and left it folded in the hall with Frodo's; the Sun had already browned his shoulders during his days of working in the garden, so he need not fear burning. The tide was at an awkward stage, so together they went down the beach and turned in along a creek towards the marsh. After they parted the reeds and stepped down, a flat muddy beach lay exposed just inside the tall growth of green spikes. A few white birds flew away, and the water rippled gently, reflecting the wide blue sky. There was a stale, marshy smell in the air. The mud all along the water was pitted with small black holes, and Frodo was satisfied to see them.

"You hold the bucket while I dig." He stepped forward and rapidly thrust his foot deep into the mud-- and drew it up again with a long narrow clam nestled atop his toes.

"How did you know that was down there?" Sam stepped up to let Frodo tip it into the bucket.

"They make the holes." Frodo delved for another clam and missed it, then moved on to another spot. "You have to move fast-- they burrow to get away."

Sam watched him closely as he dug, and then tried it for himself. He missed the clam, but kept trying. Frodo stepped a little apart and worked steadily, pausing every now and again to dunk the bucket and rinse off his catch. Soon the buckets were nearly full.

Eventually Sam managed to get under a clam, but it slipped off his foot back in to the mud when he lifted it, and he nearly spilled the bucket scrambling for it with his hands. "They do burrow, at that! I wish I could dig half so fast and so well!" He washed his muddy hands in the creek, puffing.

"Be careful, Sam!" Frodo glanced back with alarm, and reached for Sam even as the muddy bank began to slide out from under his feet. Sam flailed, and caught at Frodo's wrist; Sam's grip pulled him off balance and he too slid and fell on his rump in the mud with a loud smack.

Sam landed half in the creek, sputtering and splashing; it was shallow and there was little danger he would be drowned, so Frodo just sat back, chuckling a bit at him.

Sam looked up, rue and humor mingling on his face. "So this is funny, is it?"

"Dreadfully funny." Frodo set the bucket aside. "Do you need a hand?"

"That's more like it," Sam said, but Frodo didn't quite trust the gleam in his eyes, so he set the bucket well aside and reached to wrap his hand around a bit of driftwood, which lay firmly lodged in the mud-bank. Only then did he reach for Sam, but his hands were slippery with mud and Sam had judged things to a nicety. He yanked just hard enough to bring Frodo toppling forward to join him in the water, soaked to the skin and sunk in mud to his elbows, half crouched over Sam's thighs.

Frodo glared at Sam and brought up a handful of mud, plopping it solidly on to Sam's bare belly; Sam in turn scraped it off, his chest hitching with half-restrained laughter, and reached for Frodo's face with his muddy hands, but Frodo lunged away.

Sam followed, and caught Frodo's heel, bringing him down face-first on the bank; Frodo struggled, kicking and laughing, and twisted around like an eel to push Sam down on the mud, clams and dignity both forgotten.

They rolled, half in the creek and half out, solidly plastered with black, sandy mud from head to toe, before Sam pinned Frodo under his greater weight and held him there.

Frodo felt his laughter die as Sam's weight settled on to him, and his eyes went wide; Sam froze too, looking down at Frodo, lying between his thighs, their hips pressed together.

For perhaps a dozen wild beats of Frodo's heart they lay there, neither moving, eyes locked. A fly buzzed near Frodo's ear, the whine of its wings all but unheard beneath the rush of his blood.

At last Sam moved, lifting his weight off Frodo; when he had levered himself up, he reached for Frodo, and Frodo rose.

"You look a fright," Sam said, his voice reaching for lightness. He was a fine one to talk; he looked like a walking blob of mud with eyes.

"You should see yourself." Frodo retrieved the clams; his laugh still sounded a little forced and breathless. "We'll have to bathe in the sea before we can go inside."


	10. Glow

They climbed over the dunes and back on to the beach, dripping muddy water all about. They traded off the heavy buckets from hand to hand as they walked, and soon were in sight of the smial. Gandalf's eyebrows rose so far they vanished under the brim of his hat when he saw them, and Bilbo half-choked himself, spluttering on his tea.

"Anyone would think you were clams yourselves, my lads!" He pointed his finger at them, chortling, when he had recovered his breath. "You're supposed to dig for them, not bury yourselves with them!"

"Since you're in such fine spirits, you can clean the clams yourself while we wash off the mud!" Frodo responded, and put his hands on his hips.

"I'll be happy to, provided you take care of the laundering!" Bilbo winked to Gandalf. "What did you do, roll about in the mud?"

"I rescued Sam when he fell in the creek," Frodo said, pulling himself upright with a fine show of indignation.

"And I thought he could use a bit of taking down, seeing as he was making light of my misfortune," Sam added easily. "He looks right well covered in mud, don't you think?"

"Oh, very well indeed." Gandalf nodded sagely, and folded his hands. "For a clam, at any rate, though I've rarely seen a Hobbit in such a disreputable state, let alone two." He exaggerated his disapproval, raising his bushy eyebrows and pursing his lips, but his eyes twinkled merrily.

Frodo smirked in spite of himself and handed over the bucket. "Come on, Sam. It's starting to dry-- and it will itch."

He led Sam down to the beach and strode into the surf, noticing belatedly that Sam was no longer beside him. "It's shallow here," he called back. "Never mind the breakers." They were rolling in quite tamely, thigh-high.

Sam followed him, face taut with nerves and worry; he relaxed a little once they were behind the breakers, and Frodo led him a few steps farther out. The waves lifted and fell about them until they were nearly chest high-- or Frodo was, at any rate. Sam lingered with the water just above his belly.

Frodo knelt and ducked his head under, and came up streaming and blowing, shaking his hair back. Sam eyed him with a dubious look, then satisfied himself with reaching down to cup handfuls of water and splash them over his chest and shoulders.

Frodo squirmed about, sluicing water over himself, then wriggled out of his breeches and tossed them up on to the wet beach, then began working the last of the mud out of the nooks and crannies, glad that the water was a soft, opaque green here in the surf.

Sam followed suit, and soon looked rather comical, clean and pale from the shoulders down, but still streaked with mud from the neck up.

"You'll have to duck under the surface," Frodo encouraged him, and Sam took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself, and then walked out to where Frodo stood, hastily ducking his head and scrubbing his fingers through his hair.

He managed it without too much trouble, came out much cleaner, and was blinking the water out of his eyes when a tall swell came through. Frodo bobbed on it, comfortable in the water, but Sam gave a yelp and floundered, clutching at Frodo.

"It picked me right up!" His voice was shrill and he hung on tight as their feet touched the sand again. "I can't swim, Frodo; bless me, don't you know that?"

Frodo could not speak at first; the entire length of Sam's bare body was pressed against his, warm and sleek in the cool water, and their legs were tangled. Another swell came, not as powerful as the first, but enough to make Sam cling to him, panicked, water streaming from his hair and over his face.

"Walk backwards," Frodo finally managed to utter, moved by the terror in Sam's eyes. "Just a few steps," he coaxed, and pushed against Sam to stir him. Sam, stirred to action by another low swell, hastily obeyed. "There you go," Frodo soothed, his throat feeling dry with his own variety of panic, which did not subside-- Sam was still holding tight to him in his fear, though they now stood no more than waist-deep. "I'm sorry."

As for Frodo, it was not the water that worried him now; it was the fire. Sam's body was warm where the ocean was cool, and Frodo could feel heat rising in him, building until he thought his skin would steam dry from it. He tensed, shifting to break free, but then Sam lifted his gaze from the water and it locked with Frodo's.

Panic was gone, forgotten in the sudden compelling force of Sam's wide eyes, and as though it were a dream, Frodo felt Sam's hold change, loosening just enough to shift and mold him closer with deliberate purpose.

Frodo knew what was coming; he knew and wanted-- even ached-- for it. His throat was dry, seized with thirst for Sam's half-parted lips, so very close to his, his whole heart lost to the hypnotic intensity of that amber-green stare. And yet it did not come; Sam was still-- until Frodo, pressed beyond his capacity to resist, made an agonized whimper in his throat and closed the distance between them.

Sam tasted of the sea, sharp with salt, and his mouth was soft, opening readily under the pressure of Frodo's kiss. Inside he was as warm and sweet as the first fine day of spring, and Frodo heard himself whimper again, frantic, clinging to Sam just as desperately as Sam had clung to him when he believed he was drowning.

Sam's hands steadied him. One slid behind his head to cradle him protectively, the other finding its place at the small of his back, where it pressed them together gently, but with assurance. He met Frodo's kiss readily, his mouth hot and delightful and wet and silky, his tongue wickedly deft, teasing sensation out of everything it touched, everything about him offering Frodo sweetness and passion.

Frodo drank greedily of his mouth, hesitation and pride forgotten along with dignity. His tongue clumsily touched Sam's, which met it eagerly, swirling and coaxing Frodo deeper in. Sam's fingers stroked Frodo's skin, soothing him and enflaming him all at once. Frodo could hear himself making urgent, throttled sounds; his body strained against Sam's-- but then Sam held him away, firm but gentle.

"That's enough to be going on with," Sam said, hoarse, and Frodo blinked with confusion and loss. For a moment he was so immersed in the lingering sensation of Sam's mouth that he almost believed he could taste the words. Sam's callused hand rose, and he stroked along Frodo's jaw with his knuckle. "I won't have you going arse over tip without thinking, and blaming me for it later."

His voice was stern, but his eyes were soft, and he touched Frodo's lips again with his mouth, very lightly, in spite of his words. "But I'm here, when you're ready." His voice fell low, soft and husky, and he brushed Frodo's lips with his thumb. "And I hope you won't be angry with your Sam." The echo of their earlier argument lay behind the sobriety in his words and in his eyes. His fingers trembled a little as he spoke.

Frodo flushed, but not with anger; he felt shame and confusion return, redoubled, and he stepped back, suddenly feeling the cold of the water. He turned his face away, his cheeks heating painfully. "I shan't," he said faintly, feeling as though he might shatter, or perhaps waft away on the breeze.

"You've got a bit of mud on your face." Sam reached up with a wet hand and stroked it away. "And I can feel it still in my hair." He crouched and ducked his head cautiously, scrubbing at his bedraggled curls. He moved leisurely-- probably well aware he needed to give Frodo time to find his composure. The cool water was helping, and the chill press of the wind on Frodo's wet skin.

When Sam was clean, they went on to the beach and picked up their breeches, carefully keeping their eyes turned away from one another, and went up the path, discreetly separate. "I've got no clean breeches to put on again," Sam said quietly.

"A pair of Bilbo's trousers ought to fit you." Frodo murmured; he still felt self-conscious. "He'll be glad to lend them."

He could feel himself blushing as they neared the house, keenly aware that Bilbo and Gandalf would be watching, but as they neared, Bilbo shaded his eyes with his hand.

"You're glowing again, Frodo my lad," he accused, and Frodo rolled his eyes; Bilbo often claimed that, apparently just to annoy Frodo, or to tease him for being too Elflike-- but then Gandalf spoke up as well.

"That will only increase, I am afraid." Gandalf chuckled. "But it's a fine sign. I did not know that you could see it."

"Oh, I've seen it many times since we came. Not so often recently, but never so much as today." Bilbo winked in the manner of one sharing a fine and private joke.

"He is glowing, at that." Sam chuckled, fond. "Like Lady Galadriel in Caras Galadon when I saw her first. Shining like a star, she was! I first saw Frodo shining in the pass as we climbed towards the Black Land, but I didn't know what it was I saw, then."

"And I first saw it in Rivendell." Gandalf nodded at Frodo, who dithered, unsure what to say. "And I knew it was his spirit shining inside him, but I did not know to what end he would come." He smiled kindly at Frodo. "You seem to have come to a good end, or near enough."

Bilbo chuckled. "I think he can't see it himself. There, now, look at the tips of his ears! They're quite red; we're embarrassing him! I'd best get inside and put these clams on. With all the thrashing about in the mud and the sea they've been doing, these two will be ravenous. Frodo and Sam, lads, there's bath-water ready. Gandalf did the honors himself. Now hurry up, or the clams will get cold and turn to rubber! And stop that, Frodo, before you make an old hobbit go blind!"

Frodo shrugged it off shyly, the gentle humor helping him run the gauntlet of their greetings. He walked Sam around to the back of the smial. Once inside, he and Sam rinsed themselves again in clear water, awkwardly avoiding looking at one another. The scent of fresh bread made Frodo's mouth water, and he could not help stealing tiny, appreciative glimpses of Sam's skin as they bathed and dressed.

They sat down to supper when they were washed and clad, and the fried clams went down very well, piping hot and well-salted, with a bit of wine and a lot of Sam's fresh vegetables on the side.

When all was done and washed up, Sam sighed. "I'd best be getting back; it's been a fine day, but I've lingered a bit longer than I planned, and I mean to have a walk through the garden before the Sun goes in, to see what I ought to be doing to-morrow. Twilight does come fast here!"

"I'll walk you to the turn," Frodo said, and then blushed again when Bilbo chuckled and Gandalf's eyebrows rose as he turned a merry glance between Sam and Frodo.

"Company would be a welcome thing, at that." Sam bundled his wet breeches and they set out, their feet echoing hollowly on the boards. Frodo felt to shy to speak for a bit, but as they neared the turn, he found his voice again.

"Market Day in Kortirion will be on Mersday." Frodo coughed. "I keep a little calendar of my own; the Elves don't reckon weeks and years as Hobbits do. That will be in three days' time, by my reckoning."

"The garden will need me for a day or two, since I left it to itself today. It's big enough there's rather a lot to be done, as you say, in spite of how easy the Elves made it. So Mersday should be a fine time." Sam paused, one foot on the older part of the walk, where the boards had weathered silver-grey, and one on the fresh-cut timbers, which still showed the rich hue of recent life. The shadows had begun to stretch from the mountains towards the sea, and the air seemed full of golden light.

Sam smiled, disarming, and Frodo felt himself drawn forward, pulled by the need to set a seal on what had happened between them earlier. Hesitant, he stepped in, aware that the pull was stronger the nearer he went. Sam stayed steady, and met Frodo's tentative brush of lips in kind. Frodo lingered there, breathing him in, so close he could feel Sam's warmth like the welcoming bubble of heat that waits around a lit stove on a raw day in winter.

He looked at Sam-- his worn, honest face, which was growing familiar to Frodo now, not terrible at all; the gentleness in his eyes, the laugh lines carved there, the mouth uncertain, holding back the smile that wanted to form there, where it usually sat at ease.

Weariness overwhelmed Frodo, and remorse; in that moment of clarity, he knew himself a fool to cling so desperately to a pain that should have passed long ago.

"I'm sorry for what I said that night." The words came out in a rush. "It was unkind."

Sam's hand rose, and it stroked along his arm. "You needed to say it, I think, and there was truth enough to make it worth hearing. You gave up a great deal when you left the Shire, and though it wasn't my fault your chance for that life was lost, it still wasn't fair that I had it and you didn't."

Frodo's heart swelled with love and sorrow. "You forgive me too easily."

"I won't say it didn't hurt." Sam's lashes caught the light as he looked down. "For it did. But sometimes there has to be hurting before healing." He looked up again, and the love in his eyes caught Frodo's breath. But there was pain, too, and it grieved Frodo that he had put it there.

"Have you begun to like it here a bit more?" He asked, very softly.

"It's almost like home, if a good deal quieter." Sam smiled, gentle and only a little wry. "I feel lonesome sometimes, but then again, there are days when I think I start to see how I could come to like it here very well indeed." His gaze swept across Frodo's mouth, and Frodo's heart took flight in his chest. He licked his lips, but for the moment he could find nothing to say.

"I'll meet you here at dawn two days from now, then?" Sam's voice was deep and rich.

"Yes," Frodo said, his voice husky, and reached to press Sam's hand. He made himself drop it and step back, and Sam gave him a slow smile before turning and heading west into the twilight that slowly welled from the feet of the mountains.

Frodo watched him out of sight, and then turned to hasten homeward again.


	11. Kortirion

Though Frodo spent the next two days tormented by fears that the trip might prove awkward because he and Sam could find nothing to say to one another, when he met Sam at the crossroads his worries proved needless. Sam was humming one of Bilbo's old walking songs, and as they set forth towards Kortirion, Frodo gratefully joined in. Their walking-sticks beat the measure as they hummed and sang. The air hung heavy with damp, and the day grew hotter as the Sun rose, eventually appearing from behind the tall-stacked thunderclouds that still hung in the east, massing and grumbling in tall rows against the horizon.

The dunes were still except for the rustling grasses and a few small birds flittering about; heat rose from the sand beneath their feet and shimmered on the ground, pooling like water in the narrow valleys. Sam squinted at it doubtfully, visibly startled when they arrived at the spot which had been the horizon and found only bare sand where he expected water.

"It's a trick of the heat," Frodo stopped his humming. "It fools your eyes."

"And here I'd hoped to cool my toes!" Sam shook his head and moved on, not without a final look back at the dry hollow.

"There will be a place for us to rest in Kortirion, and cool baths." Frodo smiled. "Or we could go on to the beach now, and wade in the surf."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." Sam shrugged, a little sheepish. "I don't hold with those waves coming in and out all the time, chasing after your feet if you're on the sand and looking to pick you up and sweep you out to sea if you go out among them."

Frodo chuckled ruefully. "You're right, of course-- they can do that, though I've never heard of such a thing happening here in Valinor. But you're all the more right to fear them since you don't swim. Still, you'd be fine as long as you watched where you put your feet and didn't go out too far-- and as long as the weather stayed fair, of course."

"I don't know about that." Sam squinted towards the beach, where the white crests and curls of the breakers were visible between the dunes, the hiss and surge audible even over the wind. "I heard tell once from my Elanor of waves in the shore country of Gondor, where that fellow Imrahil saw to things, if you remember. They rose up out of nowhere under a clear blue sky, and ran right up the beach and into a town, and washed away near everyone who lived there. Strider-- the King Elessar-- said it come of the earth moving about under the sea."

Frodo considered, and granted it might be possible, but still... Sam did not have his knowledge of Valinor, and how closely it was governed by the Valar. "That would not happen here unless Ulmo willed it."

"Likely you're right." Sam relaxed a bit, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "We'll catch a bit of breeze after this next climb, and see the city, too."

They tackled it with a will, and Sam was right about the breeze, which was pleasant even if it was a bit warmer than Frodo might have liked. The sea would have been warm too; they were rapidly approaching the hottest days of summer.

"It would have been a relief to wake this morning and find a pony waiting at the gate," Sam observed as they stood leaning on their walking-sticks atop the ridge. There was sparse, dappled shade amidst the wind-stunted pines, and the road curled over the ridge-top, providing a view across the land that lay between them and Kortirion-- the pale dunes speckled with clumps of grass with leaves like the edges of razors, the darker green of reeds and marsh, and the silver sparkle of real water where a river wound its way to the sea.

Perhaps Sam understood more of Valinor than Frodo had suspected; Frodo chuckled ruefully. "They do things very much of their own will, or not at all," he agreed. "It seems they did not feel their help was needed today." He turned his eyes away, shy; more likely, some greater design was afoot to put him and Sam near one another for as long as it might be managed.

"I had wondered who might tame them."

"No one, if they don't wish to be tamed." Frodo shrugged. A blackbird alit on a branch near them and scolded; it had a bright crimson patch of feathers on its shoulder, and a band of yellow ones just underneath.

"This is the oddest sort of place," Sam mused, looking at it. "Quite everyday and homelike, it is, until you start to think of it as such, and then you find a marvel around every corner. And there's not near so much of the Elves as I'd expected."

Frodo nods. "I felt much the same." In truth he had, though it had taken him longer to realize it. "There are many more Elves inside the mountain walls, and the Valar and the Maiar stay there as well, for the most part. The Elves who most love the sea stay in Kortirion."

"Have you gone inside the mountains?"

"Once or twice." Frodo shrugged. "The light is brighter there, somehow. Colors seem more intense. It's very much like walking in Lothlórien. But I felt strange, as though... well. The nearest I can come to describing it is the feeling of having the Ring on, only not like that at all." He had no better words for it. He fidgeted, his hand automatically closing, his thumb seeking the stump of his missing finger. "It felt as though I walked among things that remained unseen, though they saw me quite plainly."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "I've felt that a time or two, even here." He reached for Frodo's hand, and Frodo reached back. Their hands met and clasped for a moment, and Sam's cheeks turned faintly pink; he squeezed gently and let go, turning back towards the path. "This last stretch won't walk itself, I reckon."

They went on and the Sun started to wester, shadows stretching long under the Mountains by the time they reached Kortirion. The streets were paved with white stone, and were cool under the arch of the trees. The silver bellies of the leaves rustled overhead, and mingled with the soothing plash of fountains in quiet courtyards; birds sang, hidden in the shadowed limbs, or hopped along the paving stones before taking flight away from the travelers' path.

The market was not meant to start in earnest until the next morning, but a few Elves were setting out their wares early, and others went about the streets looking through the stalls and animal pens. Even at its busiest, the Kortirion market was a quiet place by comparison to the hubbub of Highday in Bywater or Hobbiton-- there were no shrill cries from either animals or children, only the soft lowing of a cow or two and the bleating of goats or the sleepy clucking of hens sitting atop next boxes. Elves did business quietly, and with no show of money; services were traded here, and goods, but not gold or silver, not unless they had been wrought into things of beauty. Gemstones might be traded, but even this was rare; often after one gem passed between hands, goods were given freely to the gemsmith for many weeks after.

Sam looked about, his eyes wide, taking in the differences. Presently he turned to Frodo. "I hoped I could trade for the weight of the coins I brought from Middle-Earth, but I was a fool, seemingly. I've brought nothing fit to trade or sell!"

"I've brought a few things." Frodo reassured him, feeling the weight of his pack upon his shoulders. "Shells, mostly. The Teleri prize them. And next time, we can bring some of your harvest; that should go over very well." The delicate curiosities he had brought were nestled among his clothing, padded in soft cloth. He had found a few sea-gems, too, as he worked the oyster-beds--bright pearls nestled in shining opal shells; they would be enough to pay for the cow and a few necessities-- though the Elves would provide as much for free, if they saw a need.

"Where will we lodge?" Sam's voice was a little too casual, belying his fraying nerves and a certain amount of worry about the sleeping arrangements, for which Frodo felt a good deal of sympathy.

"Elrond has a house here-- it was his home we shared on the night of your arrival. He keeps it for welcoming those of his people who still sail from Middle-Earth, though they are few now." Frodo nodded towards the upper levels of the city, which was built not unlike Gondor, only in a single long spiral, with no mountain peak jutting through it for fortification.

"Iorhael!" A familiar voice called, and Frodo turned to see Elrond himself sweeping towards them, clad in thick flowing robes, insensible of the heat. Elrond was smiling, his long dark hair caught up in a silver clasp. "Hello, my friend."

"Elrond." Frodo bowed low, and Sam did likewise. "We are well met!"

"Well met indeed. Gandalf sent messages that we should expect you, and Perhael too." Elrond clasped their hands in turn; Frodo thought he had never seen the once-dour Elf smile so often. "You are welcome in my house; a place has been prepared for you." He changed from Quenya to Westron out of courtesy for Sam.

Frodo remembered Gandalf's news, and chuckled. "If a hobbit may find sleep in your house these days!"

"Perhaps tonight." Elrond chuckled ruefully. "Tomorrow, Celebrían will arrive from the interior with our son, and the place will become considerably less peaceful. It has been many long years since a child was born to us, and we had all but forgotten how constantly one must be tended--and how much noise they make in the night!"

"A babe?" Sam exclaimed, delighted. "I haven't held one of those since before I set sail."

"You are welcome to meet him as soon as you wish." Elrond stood tall, the picture of a proud father. "I would be pleased to have you hold my son."

"And to have a help in tending his diaper, too, I daresay." Sam chuckled. "I'm an old hand at that, if I do say so myself!"

Frodo fidgeted, looking between them; sadness made war with a spike of bitterness in his breast.

"You are weary with long walking," Elrond said; "I should not keep you here. Hurry on to the house, and you will be made welcome. But Celebrían and I would be glad to see you at our table for supper to-morrow."

They walked up the gradual slope of the white path, past singing fountains and flowering trees, until Frodo led Sam through a gate into a court-yard. A tall Elf waited by the door.

"I am Lenwë. We were expecting you, Frodo." He smiled and bowed low; he spoke the Westron tongue of Middle Earth, and he had no accent; he would be from Rivendell: born there, perhaps. "And you, Samwise. Be welcome." He led them in and settled them in their rooms, which were open, after the fashion of the Elves, with wide plaited screens that could be lowered for a bit of privacy.

The rooms were set on a long hall that reached to the edge of the garden, with a view of the highest level of the city on one side, and of the sea on the other. There was no enclosed hallway, but a balcony lay beyond the roof on either side so that occupants might pass even if the screens were drawn. On the balcony stood comfortable, low chairs and low tables that had been made ready for the hobbits, and on them lamps and candles were set.

Flowers grew in planters on the balconies-- lilies of white, with a heavy sweet scent, and mallows with flowers as broad as Frodo's head. Their dark, glossy leaves lifted in the wind as he set his pack on his couch and looked about. They were nestled amidst the tree-tops, high enough to see the view from both sides of the house. When Lenwë had excused himself and departed, Frodo felt himself begin to relax, glad to be away from others.

They put their dusty packs beneath the couches, and as they explored their lodging, Frodo noted that Sam stayed well away from the edge of the balcony. He smiled; there was a stone balustrade and it was quite safe. He had never seen anyone seriously injured in Valinor; apart from a few calluses and minor nicks with his knife, he had endured none himself. He didn't doubt that injury could be done, but it almost never was: it must be willed to be accomplished, and none willed it.

Frodo caught sight of Sam reaching to touch the satin pillow of his couch, and sensed Sam's sidelong glance; he licked his lips, which suddenly felt dry. Perhaps it was time to seek a bath-- though that, too, promised to be awkward in its way.

He reached in to his pack and retrieved clean clothes; there would be feasting and merriment during their stay, and if they joined the company tonight, it would not do to show up as they were, travel-stained and worn.

"Let's have a bath, Sam," he suggested, very casual, and led the way back down the stair to the lower levels. The bathing chamber was enclosed, but light and airy nonetheless, with rays of evening light slanting in through chinks in the filigreed wooden screens.

It was a hot day, and so only one fire was lit; it licked around the bottom of a blackened copper cauldron filled with steaming water. The other cauldrons stood empty, but there was no need to draw cold water nonetheless; it was fed in to the marble tubs themselves through an elaborate system of pipes.

Frodo and Sam each took a bucket or two of hot water and poured them in to the two smallest tubs, then Frodo showed Sam how to turn on the taps to fill his tub, and they re-filled the cauldron with their buckets. By the time they were done their tubs were ready, and they shyly turned from one another to undress and climb in.

The water was softly cool, but not cold; after a long day in the Sun, it felt better than good. Frodo sighed, leaning against the smooth marble backrest, and ran a sponge over his arms and chest, feeling part of his weariness sluice away with the dirt.

"These Elves know a thing or two about bathing." Sam sounded equally content, and had sunk down so far only the top of his curly head was visible over the lip of the tub. "Though I won't say I feel proper rested yet, at least not without a bite of something."

Frodo chuckled. "You'll soon have your wish. There is always food to be had in the House of Elrond; the pantries are kept stocked, and the Elves who live here feast and sing in the gardens on fine nights like this one."

"I'm not for a party that goes all night, I'm thinking." Sam gave a luxuriant groan and the water in his tub echoed it with a low rustling splash. "After such a walk, I'll be wanting my bed early, and that's for certain. I'm not as young as I used to be."

Frodo spared a hard thought for the absent ponies-- and for himself not thinking to bring Bilbo's little cart, though perhaps Sam would not have wished to ride in it while Frodo drew him. "We can dine on the balcony, if we like. I will ask Lenwë if we can be served there."

"I'd like that." Water rippled as Sam washed himself, and Frodo did likewise, sighing with pleasure. He could already smell the cooking-fires and roasting meat; often when a ship arrived the Elves would roast a pig or a yearling calf in coals in a pit dug on the beach; it seemed he and Sam had arrived just in time to be ready for one such dinner to be dug out and served.

Frodo climbed out of the tub and dried himself, shyly conscious of Sam's eyes on him, then dressed. "I'll make the arrangements. You can find our rooms again? Good."

In short order Frodo found Lenwë, who sent him back to join Sam, and almost before he was settled, Elves arrived bearing platters of roast meat and vegetables, hot sweet cakes glazed with honey, and several bottles of wine. They laid two places at a table on the balcony next to the couches reserved for Frodo and Sam, choosing the side towards the city.

Frodo and Sam thanked them and went out to sit down; the Sun was gone behind the mountains and lights were springing out in all the tiers and terraces of the city like strings of lanterns on the Row at Overlithe. Lenwë lit the torches on the balcony and the candles upon their table and bowed, then went down. Song began to rise from the gardens, and clear laughter, even as Frodo and Sam sat down to eat. The soft, warm light danced on the table and caught in Sam's hair, turning silver to gold; Frodo sat for a moment and watched him serve himself, feeling a gentle contentment he hadn't felt for entirely too long.

Then Sam looked up, a question in his eyes, and Frodo laughed at himself, taking meat and bread and pouring them both glasses of wine. It was a rich, fruity red, and after the manner of Elvish wines, it was quite strong and entirely too easy to drink. Soon he and Sam were laughing from pure joy without need for jests.

They finished the food at length, and went to sit on a bench at the edge of the balcony, where they might look down in to the gardens. Elf maids were dancing on the green there, their hair trailing in their wake like clouds of silver and gold, or of raven black. Minstrels sang, and one played upon a flute of silver. There were so many Elves Frodo was now certain a ship must have arrived that day; he could hear the common tongue spoken amidst them, and the songs mingled both Sindarin and Westron speech with the more formal Quenya tongue.

"They don't seem real somehow, even now," Sam said, one hand on the railing and the other cradling a wine-glass that was rather too large for him.

"No," Frodo agreed. "Not in the same way you and I and Bilbo do." He took a sip from his own glass. "Hobbits need hobbits for happiness, I'm afraid."

Sam smiled into his glass, a little rueful. "That we do."

Frodo's heart filled his throat, and he set his glass aside, moving to sit next to Sam on the bench. Very carefully he slipped under Sam's arm, waiting for Sam to put his own wine down safely, and then nestled against him, drawing a deep sigh that escaped on a trembling breath.

"I have missed you through all the long years, so much that it terrifies me," Frodo breathed. "So much that I am afraid to let myself need you, now that you are here."

Sam's arm tightened in answer, and his lips brushed against Frodo's forehead. The song was like clear water, shining around them and lapping over them; the torchlight fell about them, moving slowly with the air, and the leaves sang as they shifted and blew. Frodo closed his eyes and lifted his head, seeking.

Sam's mouth tasted of wine, and his tongue moved slow and sweet. Frodo sank into bliss, feeling the soft-washed linen of Sam's shirt under his palms, and the slow-hot thread of Sam's pulse, beating strongly under his thumb.

They kissed for a time, sweet and unhurried, and when they stopped, Frodo did not dare to venture more, but sat tucked under Sam's arm, feeling happiness so intense it seemed as though he might shatter, caught between it and the tension of remembered fear. They remained close without moving as the stars spun above them, half-dozing where they sat, until Sam stifled a yawn and Frodo felt it, his own jaw cracking in sympathy. He slipped from under Sam's arm then and they went in, lowering the plaited screens against the warm wind off the sea and quietly pushing their couches close together. There was no need for speech; content in their newfound peace, they took off their shirts and breeches and slipped into bed. Each fell asleep to the sound of the other's breathing.


	12. Celebrían

Frodo awoke lapped in warmth, with strong arms around him and gentle breath tickling at the nape of his neck. He opened his eyes and found his own couch empty, and was unsurprised that he had sought Sam's arms during the night. The Elven song had run through his sleep like a silver thread, and he had floated on it through dreams with Sam at his side. There had been no nightmares. Now the morning was silver-grey, and tendrils of fog from the sea blew through the leaves, and the sound of the waves washed through the city, a hushed hiss and thunder in the distance.

Frodo could see a spider's web glistening with fine droplets in a corner of the balcony, a delicate lace of interwoven threads. Though he did not care for spiders, the web was beautiful, flexing in the ebb and flow of the breeze.

The Sun was rising, and a faint golden light waxed in the mist, gradually kindling it and making the whole world seem to glow. Sam shifted and sighed behind Frodo, and Frodo knew he too was wakeful, watching the morning light burn away the night mist. The web shone as though made of diamonds. A bird called, and then another, and then the morning was filled with their song. One flitted down out of the trees to investigate the crumbs the hobbits had left on their table; the dishes had been cleared away silently as they slept.

The tiny bird was clear, shining yellow, with bands of black and white upon its wings and a tiny patch of black just on its head; a finch, perhaps, with a bright eye and quick manner. It hopped along the table, keeping a wary eye upon Frodo, pecking up a crumb here and there before it darted away on a flutter of wings.

When the Sun passed the horizon, her rays struck with a fierce increase in heat; Frodo sighed, feeling sweat begin to break out across his brow and over his lip. It promised to be the first mercilessly hot day of the season. Perhaps the weather would continue like this for weeks. If it did, they should walk in the night when they departed for home; it would be cooler on the sands. The hot sands could burn even tough-soled hobbit feet, when the Sun was strong enough, and it was clear she would walk close to the land today.

"'Twill be a scorching hot day," Sam sighed in Frodo's ear, echoing his thought.

"We'd best get to the market early, then." Frodo stirred, reluctant to get up, but also feeling nervous about lying so near Sam. "It will only get hotter as the Sun rises."

"That it will." Sam nuzzled lazily at Frodo's ear, and then rose, yawning and stretching. His bones popped and crackled a bit upon rising, and Frodo stole a look at him, but his face was calm: that must be very normal and expected, then. Frodo bit his lip and also rose from the couch to dress.

They went down to the kitchens together and found bread and honey waiting, and Sam scrambled eggs with ham and mushrooms while Frodo sliced and toasted bread and poured milk for them both. A few Elves wandered in and out, strangers to the hobbits, but greeting them cordially.

They ate quickly and then went out into the street and walked down to the lower levels of the city, where the market was held. There were fish and shellfish for sale, laid out packed in snow brought down from the mountaintops, and there were crabs and lobsters swimming in barrels. Goats bleated and scampered about their pens, and a few amazingly clean, pink pigs grunted with contentment, noses buried in their troughs.

Sam chuckled at the pigs and gently scratched one pink-and-black spotted yearling behind its floppy ear with the end of his staff while Frodo consulted with the tall Elf who had brought the pig to market, but they ended by deciding not to take up pig farming just yet, and went farther down in to the market.

There, they purchased a few nimble little goats and a dozen laying hens and a cockerel. They also got a small cart for Sam to draw about with his gardening tools or his purchases loaded inside, and Frodo helped him choose and barter for a number of cured hams and sausages, grain for the fowls, flour, preserved fruit, and other things Sam could not yet provide for himself. Their largest purchase, though, was the milk-cow Gandalf had picked out and arranged to be brought from the interior especially for them. She was reddish-brown with white spots on her legs and a white tip on her tail, and she was mild as a maid, with wide brown intelligent eyes.

She cost ten perfect pearls, which Frodo privately thought was rather too low for such a fine beast. However, she took an immediate liking to Sam, and the Elf who had brought her, seeing her immediate devotion, would have given her to Sam for nothing, had Frodo not insisted that he be paid.

The cow did not seem to care about the transaction herself, trotting indolently over to Sam the moment she spied him, and then following him about through the market like a puppy, nosing him at inconvenient moments for attention, which made Frodo chuckle.

By noontide Frodo was quite sticky and hot, and the heat of the Sun sat like a weight on the crown of his head whenever they ventured out from under the shade of the trees. The dust from the cobbles coated his feet and he was growing hungry, in spite of having bought a skin of wine and half a dozen sweet cakes from an Elf lass for second breakfast. The trickle of fountains began to make Frodo long for a drink of fresh water and a chance to bathe in the sea.

Sam finally declared himself satisfied, so they went back to the cart, which stood loaded with their purchases. They hitched it to the cow and she drew it up the hill for them, clopping steadily along after Sam, who had only to walk to lead her. Frodo noticed a number of Elves laughing or hiding smiles behind their hands at the picture they made, and it made him feel like laughing himself.

After tending to their livestock and making sure all of them were fed and had access to water and shelter, they went in, and found a fine luncheon awaiting.

"If the board is laid like this at every meal, it will be a sore temptation indeed to come here and visit Elrond more often than I should," Sam said with deep appreciation when he laid eyes upon four kinds of cold roast meats and all manner of breads and cakes, vegetables and fruits, and fish and shellfish and all of the other savory things laid out on the board. They were late for noonmeal, and had the place to themselves as they dined, the Elves having gone up to one of the balcony levels where they lodged, or out to the gardens or the city.

Frodo and Sam ate and drank until they could hold no more, and then remembering Elrond's words of the previous day, they went to bathe hastily and then ventured out in search of their hosts.

The gardens were shady and full of the sound of singing water; birds greeted them from the trees, and the white paths were made of fine gravel that crunched softly underfoot. There were more lilies and mallows here, and delphinium and forget-me-not, and also other flowers and shrubs, many of which Frodo could not name when Sam asked to know more about their habit.

Frodo led him towards the tall fountain that formed the unofficial center of the place. There was a seat there beside it, enthroned among the boughs and branches of tall live-oak trees that might easily have lived in the gardens for all the long Elf-years since they were made, old and gnarled but flourishing with leaves and acorns nonetheless. The roots of the oaks twisted around and through the stones that made the fountain, drinking thirstily of the waters that splashed and glimmered there.

They rounded the bend and beheld the fountain, and saw an Elf was already sitting there: a tall woman clad in silver, with her long dark hair about her shoulders. Frodo knew her for Celebrían, but he hesitated; her babe lay on the seat next to her, swaddled in a blanket. She was unfastening her robes and drawing them away from her breast, to feed the child without withdrawing, after the manner of Elves.

Her breast gleamed as pale as a lily with a shy pink center, and Frodo flushed, biting his lip and darting a glance at Sam, who seemed unruffled and paused merely until she had her son settled against her before stepping into the light and drawing Frodo after him.

She looked up at them, smiling, and Frodo greeted her. "Lady Celebrían, what a pleasure it is to see you again. My companion is Samwise Gamgee, lately Mayor in Michel Delving of the westfarthing of the Shire. Sam, the Lady Celebrían, wife of Lord Elrond and mother of Queen Arwen Undomiel. My lady, Sam's daughter Elanor was once privileged to serve your daughter, the queen." He managed the formalities smoothly enough, and Celebrian nodded with gracious pleasure to him and then to Sam.

"Forgive me for remaining as I am." She smiled, her pale eyes gentle and grave, as always.

"Of course," Sam answered before Frodo could speak. "Please, don't disturb yourself for our sake. We'll come to you." He was as good as his word, stepping up between the trees and taking a seat on the hobbit-high bench that sat waiting there, as though their presence had been foreseen. "You have a fine son, my lady, and a strong one, by the looks of him!"

"He eats enough that he should be." She laughed and ran her palm over the babe's head, which was already downed with fine black hair. "And I am glad he doesn't have his teeth yet." The remark reminded Frodo of the pale curve of her uncovered breast, where the lad lay drinking, as noisy and hungry as any hobbit-child Frodo had ever seen.

"He will soon enough," Sam chuckled. "And then you should have a poultice of herbs that won't trouble his belly, but will keep away infection and soothe the irritated skin."

"Infection is no trouble here, but if you know of herbs to ease nursing, I would be glad to hear what they may be." She smiled at Sam, who beamed up at her, and Frodo marveled to see the two were already set to become fast friends.

Sam reached and tucked the babe's blanket around his head, so that the breeze would not trouble him. "How many days old is he?"

"Ten and three," she answered, looking down at the little lad, whose tiny fist curled against her breast, closed like the bud of a flower. "I have named him Ellairë, for he was born in the summer season."

"I thought he must be young. He is still very small-- though a hobbit-child wouldn't be so large for many days yet."

The babe gurgled and shifted, and Frodo swallowed hard, hastily looking away from her nipple as she resettled him.

"Does he often have trouble latching?" Sam asked, pleasant as the day was long, and she nodded.

"A little, at times, but he settles again. It is not so bad that he suffers from it." Celebrían smiled, the sadness almost lifting from her eyes for a moment; as she did, her beauty made Frodo feel quite at sea.

"My Ruby had a terrible time of it," Sam sympathized. "She came when my Rose was a bit older than she should have been having babes, but Rose was dead set on having another. Ruby's mouth wasn't shaped quite right; she wasn't cleft in the top of her mouth, but she was the next thing to it. She couldn't latch no matter how she tried, and in the end we saved Rose's milk and soaked a cloth in it, then squeezed it into her mouth. I was never so glad as when she weaned on to solid food and started putting on the weight she ought."

"I suppose you Elves don't have that sort of trouble." Sam watched the babe, whose mouth was firmly settled now, with a white foam appearing at the corners.

"It is more than rare," Celebrían admitted. "And I am reckoned old to give birth among Elven-kind, but that is by custom, and not from need." The sadness returned, and Celebrían gazed toward the East. "But I was parted long from my husband, and when he came to me, my daughter did not."

Sam nodded sadly, and for a time they sat in silence. Frodo watched the water play on the fountain, thinking of the things she had not said; perhaps Sam did not, but Frodo knew the tale of her journey to Valinor, and from Bilbo, he was aware of the events that had prompted it. She had been taken by orcs and tormented-- much worse than he had been in Cirith Ungol. There were many things, perhaps, that neither he nor she had ever spoken aloud, and some they might have in common. Orcs were not a kindly folk, and took pleasure in causing pain. They were particularly inventive in their cruelty when they had orders not to kill or maim.

Frodo shuddered, and felt her eyes rest upon him. A familiar sense prickled the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as their minds touched, polite and without intrusion, but he understood she knew his thought, and that she was in accord. He knew her gift must be a natural one, as she had never borne a Ring of Power.

Sam looked between them, sensing more than Frodo might have credited, but before the moment could lengthen uncomfortably, the babe released her breast and lay quiet against her.

"Let me take him," Sam reached and accepted the little one, gathering his swaddling blanket about his shoulders. "I've dandled enough babes to handle another, regardless the size of him, and carried around hobbit-children large enough to walk, too!"

Celebrían smiled. She relinquished her child and re-settled her robe, much to Frodo's relief. Sam stood and nodded to them. "I'll walk him about until he brings up any air on his stomach," he said, and departed down the path. Frodo could hear him begin a lullaby before ever he passed from sight, and watched him until he vanished, his heart aching with an emotion he did not wish to examine more closely.

"You are troubled." Celebrían spoke.

Frodo sighed and looked up at her; her pale grey eyes seemed almost silver. "I do not mean to bring melancholy to you in to your time of joy."

"When one has suffered, melancholy becomes part of what one is." Again, Frodo was filled with certainty that he was understood, perhaps so deeply he did not wish to be.

"Elrond lingered in Middle Earth for many years, even by the count of Elven-kind." Celebrian's bare foot slid forward from beneath her robe; she dipped her toes in to the water. "And I awaited him here, hoping that he would come, hoping that I would be healed of my griefs when he arrived-- hoping that I would still know him then, and that the long years would not have left him a stranger to me. I hoped too that he would not be slain, and fail to come to me, though I waited by the shore until Ilúvatar ordained the ending of days."

Frodo bowed his head; his toes curled, clenching on the green grass beneath his seat.

"It is not always easy to find a thread of companionship that was broken and dropped from the weave of life during such a parting beyond the sundering seas." Celebrían spread her pale hands as though groping for something lost. "It is hard to cherish life when we are still oppressed by the time when we were harmed beyond repair."

"No," Frodo agreed. "Especially if...." he hesitated, feeling boorish to remind her of the past, and yet needing to speak. "If one was hurt so badly one chose to break the thread."

"We have that in common, you and I: we were wounded beyond flesh and into spirit," she agreed. "We broke the thread between us and our loved ones to seek healing in the west. But if those wounds do not pass away, then what have we gained, though we sit at the feet of Taniquetil under the eye of Manwë himself, and drink the cordial of the Valar? We have gained nothing, but the victory of our enemies grows a thousandfold. In our lives their power lingers. Though they have perished from the earth, they still have power to harm us and those about us-- but only if we let them."

Frodo realized he was rubbing the mark of the blade that he still wore upon his shoulder, and made himself drop his hand.

"And yet I am afraid." He spoke low, unable to meet her eyes.

"My husband came to me at last, and your friend has come to you. And I know your fear better than any other." She reached and laid her hand on his shoulder. "I know the fear you do not speak, even to yourself: you fear to let his hands touch you, feeling as polluted as you do in your heart by the memory of the Enemy's foulness. This fear must be uprooted and cast out again, and Sauron with it."

"You have overcome your fears and cast them away," Frodo said slowly. "How have you done it?"

"You must trust in Samwise, and trust in your heart." Her voice grew soft. "And you must cast your fears away from you at the dawning of every day, at noon when they return, at evening when they linger with the oncoming shadows, and deep in the night when they wake you from your sleep. Drink of life, not of memory's poison. Turn to the love you have for him, and let it push out the horror that would consume you. Live, and bring forth beauty into life."

"I can never have a child," Frodo said, his stomach twisting with pain.

"Will you then deny yourself your friend, because of it? Will you not do what you may?"

"I am trying." The words tasted bitter. "Will the memories never go away, or lose their power?"

"You must make them. You cannot wait for them to leave of their own choosing." She drew back her foot, curling her toes about the gnarled root. "Sam robbed his fears of their power when he set out to heal the Shire, and when he made his family. His choices bore fruit. Yours may also. What fruit they will both bear now is of your choosing."

She looked hard at Frodo. "Do not fear that the darkness you carry will stain him," she said softly. "Darkness will flee the light inside you both when you come together. Remember, even the most mighty works of Morgoth are turned to the glory of Ilúvatar: flame has its own beauty, and mingles light and shadow to create it. Ice may be terrible, but the grace of Ilúvatar shapes it in forms of wonder and delight. Just so it is with the power of storms. Your flesh will forget the Ring when you are joined to Samwise in body, just as your heart forgets the power of the Ring when it is filled with your love for him."

Frodo turned red to the tips of his ears, to hear his most hidden, painful matters spoken of so plainly. "I will try harder, then," he said faintly.

"And he will receive you as a gift beyond price, and cherish you above all things. I saw this in him also." She smiled, that faint sadness quiet in her eyes, but with it Frodo saw joy, equal in measure and growing greater. "As I have seen it in my husband. For my part, I believe Elrond is the true gift beyond price, as is my son. I will never leave them again, in this world or the next." She drew herself up, her foot vanishing beneath her robes. "Your Samwise returns, and my husband with him."


	13. Union

They rose and waited for Elrond and Sam; Sam still held Ellairë in his arms, but now the babe was fast asleep. Elrond smiled, and the Sun wreathed his head like a crown, but dimmed in the light of his smile for Celebrían. And Sam smiled also, but his smile was for Frodo, and it made Frodo's heart and belly flutter as though all the winged seabirds that ever flew were lodged inside.

When Celebrían went to Elrond, Frodo also went to Sam, and when Celebrían had embraced her husband and then reclaimed Ellairë, Frodo put his hand inside Sam's shyly. He and Sam had hardly mended their argument; they had not been speaking freely for long, not yet a fortnight, and so he felt both humbled and ashamed at the joy in Sam's face.

"Let us go out to the pavilion on the beach," Elrond said. "Soon the season of storms will be upon us, and after today no more ships will come until the leaves fall again in Middle-Earth, I think. But tonight we will feast together with our friends and kin, and remember those who are yet beyond the Sundering Seas, and we will treasure our hope to be reunited with them again when Ilúvatar wills it so, even as we thank him for watching over those with whom we are now rejoined."

Sam's eyes filled were filled with tears when Elrond finished speaking, and Frodo squeezed his hand. Sam looked to him, wiping his face with his wrist, and Frodo slid his hand up along Sam's sleeve and then put his arm about Sam's shoulders. Sam bent his head until his brow touched Frodo's, and his eyes closed as he lingered there, breathing in the simple closeness between them. Frodo felt his own eyes fill, and he brought his arm around to pull Sam up against him, hugging him fiercely, knowing it for the proper welcome he had been unable to give when Sam first set foot upon the shore.

He did not let go for a long time, and when he did, both their faces were wet. The warm sea-breeze dried their tears as they went out together to the pavilion where the Elves waited.

The evening was long, filled with food and wine, and the Elves sang and danced-- but throughout the evening, nothing was so wondrous to Frodo as Sam beside him. They were seated in a place of honor next to Elrond and Celebrían at the high table, and were each treated with the honor due one of the cormacolindo, as they were commonly called among the grey Elves. But they had eyes only for each other, it seemed, and as the Moon rose over the waves and the wind grew cool and fresh over the gently breaking sea, they stayed near to one another, sitting on the same bench, their hands and heads touching whenever they spoke, or when Frodo translated for Sam the verse of a song that was sung in Quenya.

A warmth was growing in Frodo, tender and fragile and yet somehow certain; it filled him to the brim until the sensation of every moment was magnified: the brush of brocade against linen when his knee touched Sam's, the caress of Sam's breath against his cheek, the living velvet of Sam's skin. He felt as though he were filled with light, vibrating gently-- and perhaps he was, for the Elves looked on the two of them and smiled, and gave them their space together.

Frodo reached for his wine and swallowed, feeling it feed the heat in his belly, and offered it to Sam so that he could feel the same. Sam drank, his eyes warmer than the wine when they met Frodo's over the rim of the glass, and when he had set it aside, Frodo stood and reached for his hand, and they went out along the covered walk towards the house. The sand was dotted everywhere with footprints and Elves danced past, merry and light, their laughter rising like the golden sparks of fireflies.

Frodo kept his fingers laced with Sam's as they climbed, torchlight glimmering on the traces of sand that dusted the stair, and when they reached the top he pulled Sam to him and kissed him slowly, finding his way in to Sam's mouth as the gentle heat simmered between them. No trace of darkness or fear remained, it seemed, when Sam was within his arms. Entranced by the taste and feel of him, Frodo finally broke the kiss and sighed against Sam's neck, almost a moan, his hands spread flat upon the solid strength of Sam's shoulders and his back.

Sam kissed him again and led him forth along the hall, but it was nearly half an hour before they reached their couches, for Frodo kept stopping to taste Sam's wine-sweet mouth, or to lean against his broad chest for long minutes and listen to the steady beating of his heart. No torches were lit upon the balustrades, and they were safely concealed in the gentle shadows of the roof, the Moon sinking low and tangling himself in the branches of trees in the garden.

Sam lowered one of the screens as they passed it, to shield them from any curious eyes on the beach, and Frodo waited for him, then gently pushed him down on to the couch they had shared the night before. He knelt before Sam, trembling, and reached up to pull Sam down for a kiss, which lasted for a long time, until Frodo forgot himself and existed only to touch--his hands finding bare skin between Sam's waistband and the back of his vest, and then making more, pushing the sweat-damp cloth away so that they could skim over Sam's strong back.

"Easy," Sam breathed in his ear, his lips trailing fire over the lobe. "You don't have to make this more than it is--"

"I want to," Frodo said, ducking his face against Sam's chest, shy. He felt as though all breath had left him; his heart pounded in his chest. He didn't feel like talking; when he let his mind work, his fears threatened to crowd in and smother him. "Just let me find my way..."

Sam subsided, pressing a kiss against the crown of his head, and Sam's trembling hands soothed him as he nuzzled his way down to Sam's chest, finding a button and working it, then tickling his lips against the coarse, grizzled fur revealed there. Elven song swelled on the wind, lapping about them with dreamlike and haunting sweetness. Frodo found another button, and another, and followed them down along Sam's belly to his waistband.

He hesitated there, kissing Sam's belly softly, feeling the heat rising from Sam's body. Sam was obviously swollen inside his breeches when Frodo sneaked a glance downward to learn whether he was doing things properly. Sam's hands rested on his shoulder and his head, undemanding, and Sam's fingers caressed along the edge of his ear, tender and careful. Frodo turned and kissed them, then worked the buttons at the side of Sam's waistband and drew back the flap.

Sam's underlinens contained him, the darkened flesh visible through fabric made translucent by perspiration. Frodo drew a deep breath, and the scent of Sam entered him, rich and musk-dark. Sam made a low sound in his chest: helpless and longing, and his hands shook as they caressed Frodo's face, butterfly-light touches along his cheekbone and his jaw, turning his face up so he could look in to Sam's eyes.

The last shafts from the sinking Moon illuminated Sam's face in blue and silver. His parted lips revealed the flicker of his tongue moving to wet them; his pupils were wide and dark. He looked vulnerable and beautiful, and his expression was inexpressibly tender as his thumb traced the line of Frodo's lip, its surface rough-horned with callus.

Frodo kissed Sam's thumb and touched it with his tongue, watching Sam's lashes sink to fan against his cheeks. Sam drew a deep breath, his chest and shoulders rising. His thumb tasted of salt. Frodo drew it into his mouth, curling his tongue against its rough pad, his cheeks hollowing as he suckled lightly. Sam made that low sound again, and it was enough to bolster Frodo's courage. He let the thumb slip out of his mouth and gently opened Sam's under-linens.

Sam's cock pushed itself free untouched, oddly like a seedling reaching for the light, and Frodo watched shyly, moving to help when it tangled with the flap of Sam's breeches. It seemed almost impossible that Sam had kindled for him so readily.

It felt hot and damp, very much alive, and he cradled it in the palm of his hand, fascinated despite himself. The tip peeked out of the foreskin, which lay drawn taut about the gleaming head. It was soft but heavy, the delicate velvety skin sliding freely about the thick, heavy shaft, which was hard and strong beneath, filling his hand as though made to fit there.

He stroked once, and Sam's sigh warmed his cheek. Sam's head bent forward as he curled around the sensation, and Frodo stroked again, looking up in wonder at Sam's face. His eyes were tightly shut, and his mouth open. He looked almost as though he were in pain, though Frodo knew better; nothing he had done could have hurt Sam. He stroked again, and Sam laid his cheek against Frodo's head, breath escaping him in a low moan.

Frodo felt himself flushing with mingled pride and embarrassment; he stroked again, lifting his face and finding Sam's mouth for a kiss. Sam's hand slid around the back of Frodo's head and he lifted him and kissed him, his mouth hot and his lips urgent, swiftly opening Frodo's mouth so his tongue could dart inside, flickering like a flame. Frodo found himself moaning into the kiss, startled by the devouring heat, which wrung pleasure from him like a harp; Sam had been holding out on him. Sam's hands were strong, and held him firm while Sam devoured his mouth; Frodo rallied and met his tongue, kissing back, still stroking the velvety shaft in his hand, though rather more raggedly than might be wanted. He could feel Sam's chest, crisp with coarse fur, between the wings of his open shirt.

At last Sam released his mouth, struggling for breath; Frodo sank back to his knees and turned his attention to what he held. On impulse, he leaned forward and kissed it, shying away from the crown and letting his lips rest against the shaft just below the flared tip, where loose skin nestled, warm and soft.

Sam made a low, hitching moan, and his hands closed to fists in the back of Frodo's shirt. Frodo stayed where he was, mesmerized by the delicacy of the skin under his lips-- fragile and yielding, with all the fullness of life just beneath. He kissed again, stroking along the other side of the shaft with his palm, and wondered how Sam would taste. Salty, perhaps, like sweat. Yes, that was salt under his tongue when it touched the soft skin: rich musky salt, and he lapped at it again without thinking. Sam whimpered and shook for him, and so Frodo nuzzled again, keeping up the rhythm with his right hand, his left braced on Sam's thigh.

He didn't quite dare move upward yet, so he moved down instead, planting careful little kisses along the length of Sam, until coarse hair tickled his chin and with nowhere left to go, he tentatively opened his mouth and slid upward, back along the path of his kisses.

Sam let out a low, sobbing moan; his hands kneaded Frodo's back, and a shudder coursed through him. Just the sound of him made Frodo ache, his cock imprisoned uncomfortably inside his breeches, and he moved his hand from Sam's thigh to his own, shifting his knees and pushing to position himself more comfortably. It felt good, a slow-hot rush of pleasure, and his own shaft found room to expand along his leg. He ran his palm along it again, at the same time as he slid his mouth down along Sam's.

"Frodo, love!" Sam's voice broke open with tenderness, so soft Frodo could barely hear it over the song from the gardens and the beach. Frodo flushed and was unable to look up to meet whatever sweet expression must be shining from Sam's eyes, but he kept moving, varying the tentative path of his mouth with gentle suckling nips, teeth sheathed behind his lips. That made Sam moan louder, and his body strained, every muscle stretching taut, though he did not move from his place upon the couch. His hands shifted and slid behind Frodo's head, resting at the base of his skull and the nape of his neck, and through them Frodo suddenly felt the leashed power of Sam, strong muscles built through a lifetime of hard labor.

Frodo stilled, sudden irrational fear and almost giddy anticipation freezing him, but Sam's hands did not grow heavier, or urge him to move as they wished; they merely rested on him, gentle and steady. After a moment his cock reminded him that it required attention inside its prison and he ran his hand along its length without thinking, then slid his mouth back down along Sam's shaft.

He fell into a slow rhythm, shyly licking and sucking, while his hand swept up and down, and his thumb teased the sticky wetness that welled at the tip. Sam's breath harshened and his little moans deepened, rumbling into a low growl as each one ended. In response, Frodo felt his own pleasure spiraling, coiling tight in him, winding itself up for release, and he dared to change sides, then nuzzle around the crown of Sam's cock as he stroked it, and then, finally, he dared to lap at the soft trickle of moisture that welled there.

Sam gave a strangled cry and his hands rose, roughly pushing Frodo's mouth away; tensed and sat back on his heels, blinking, his confidence threatening to shatter. But Sam's eyes were closed and his mouth was open, his breath hoarse and shallow, too fast. When Frodo hesitated, certainty lost, he reached to curl his strong hand around Frodo's and urged him to move again, faster. Frodo obeyed, still wondering, but felt foolish with understanding only a moment later when Sam gave a sharp, frantic cry and came, soft white jets spurting to stripe his belly and running down from the head, warm and sticky on their intertwined fingers.

Frodo stared, fascinated, at the entire process, hearing the way Sam keened in his throat, watching the way his hips hitched and thrust, as he pushed his heavy cock through their hands.

Sam sagged when it was done, panting, but he did not release Frodo; Frodo moaned low in his throat as Sam moved their locked hands and stripped the last droplets from his cock, pressing firmly, the soft white fluid wet on their hands, growing cool.

His own cock glowed with pleasure like iron heated white-hot in a forge, and his free hand abandoned modesty and dove into the front of his breeches. Relieved, Frodo pushed and kneaded at himself with frantic urgency. He sagged forward towards Sam, leaning slowly, until he half-toppled forward and his cheek lay against their sticky hands and slid down against Sam's slow-flagging cock and onto Sam's wet belly.

The feel and scent of Sam on his skin sent a delirious shudder through him and unexpectedly he was coming harder than he could ever remember, pleasure tearing through him with the blazing force of lightning from the heavens, wracking him with shudders. He couldn't breathe through the force of it, his lungs straining and empty, but that only made him come harder. He felt himself jerking frantically, struggling against the overwhelming tide, until Sam gathered him up on to the couch and cradled him near, murmuring soft words of reassurance in his ear.

He gradually realized that it was over; his lips were wet and his mouth filled with a bitter, acrid taste when he licked them. It was Sam's seed, without doubt; half his face was wet with it, and his hands were wet, too. Sam lifted them both in turn, licking and nuzzling tenderly at Frodo's palms and fingers, seeking out their essence.

Frodo moaned, spent, and let his lashes sink shut. Sam was licking at his face now, nuzzling at his lips, opening his breeches and touching him with a handkerchief to clean him. Frodo lay exhausted and let himself be tended. His cock wanted more, twitching feebly inside his sticky breeches, but his head spun dizzily and he could not keep his eyes open; he could not think of or feel anything except the soft suckling pressure of Sam's mouth on his fingers, and then the warm safe haven of Sam's arms, which rocked him away into a dreamless slumber on breaths that ebbed and flowed like the unending susurration of the sea.


	14. Discord

A gleam from the rising Sun awakened Frodo, rising across the Sea well to the right of the mat that hung between the sleeping chamber and the beach, and playing right across his eyes. He shifted away from it, and came up against Sam's solid body. Frodo realized he was stifling hot, especially since he still wore his clothes. His cheek felt dry and tight, and after a moment, he remembered lying against Sam's wet belly the night before.

The memory made him shift with embarrassment; he bit his lip and lay very still so as not to rouse Sam, but it was too late. Sam's arm came around him sleepily.

"It's already a hot morning," Sam said, voice low and muzzy with lingering sleep. "Hotter than yesterday, I'm thinking. Just right for lounging about."

"We can do that, if you want. There's no hurry." Frodo felt breathless; the heat of the Sun and the weight of the humid air magnified the heat of Sam's body, and he was keenly aware of its length along him, not entirely unpleasant in spite of the heat.

"Maybe we can leave this evening, if you think Bilbo will fare well enough for us to stay another day..." Sam's words trailed off and Sam shifted against him, and then drew back, polite.

"He should be fine," Frodo moved to close the distance, an automatic response, and felt his cheeks flush; Sam relaxed and snuggled up close, and Frodo could feel him stirring below the waist. Frodo made himself lie still, his heart racing.

"I'm thinking it's too hot for these screens, and they don't block the Sun anyhow since she's coming up where she is," Sam murmured in his ear. "I'll be right back." He rose and went to raise them, pulling and experimenting with the cords until they were neatly rolled beneath the eaves and the wet sea air blew across the balcony, flushing away the worst of the heat. Then he rolled down another, farther down the balcony, that shaded them from the rising Sun.

"That's more like it," he said with satisfaction, padding back to the couch they shared.

Frodo gulped a deep breath and rolled on to his back to meet Sam; he felt giddy with fear and wanting. Sam surveyed him carefully, then spoke.

"You don't look comfortable in that shirt and those breeches." Sam's eyes caressed Frodo, and their corners crinkled with his slow smile.

Frodo tried to remember how to breathe, but failed as Sam reached down to him and began to unfasten his buttons one by one, then opened his shirt. The sea air was cool by comparison on his chest, and he felt his nipples crinkle at the sensation, and saw it in the way Sam's eyes went dark as they surveyed him.

"I'm thinking we need to lower that screen on the city side," Sam said, mild and calm, but watching Frodo carefully for his reaction.

"Yes," Frodo breathed. "Then come back to bed." Pleased with his daring, he stretched, and Sam's throat bobbed in response, a most satisfying reward.

When Sam turned to the screens, Frodo elbowed out of his shirt, trembling, and dared to remove his breeches, also; they had been damp and quite uncomfortable in the night, and he sighed with relief when they were on the floor. Sam turned back towards him and paused where he stood, his face in shadow, a few stray shafts of sun piercing the braided screen to fall like glowing gems on his shirt and in his curls.

He took a slow step forward, and his hands went to the sides of his shirt; he drew it back over his shoulders and then let the shirt fall. Frodo's breath grew so quick and shallow in his chest he was certain Sam could hear it. He thought briefly of Rose, who surely must have felt just so, watching Sam come to bed during their honeymoon, but he dismissed her impatiently. Sam was his now.

"You look a treat, spread out like a banquet ready for feasting." Sam's voice fell, rich and hoarse. "And me a guest not sure of my welcome!"

"The Elves never refuse a guest when the board is spread," Frodo tried a jest, but at Sam's hesitation, he continued. "And they would never turn away the guest of honor."

One corner of Sam's mouth went up, and he reached to the waist of his breeches. "If that's what I am, then I'd best dress the part." Dropping his eyes, he unfastened his trousers and let them fall, leaving him clad as Frodo was-- wearing only thin underlinens. He put one hip up on the couch, and reached to touch Frodo's belly; in spite of himself, Frodo shivered involuntarily at the touch, and Sam's eyes softened.

"Don't be afraid," he said softly. "I'm not so fearsome as all that." His hand moved, sliding over Frodo's belly and up along his arm.

"I know." Frodo's face burned, and his throat felt dry and reluctant, but he made himself speak. "I lied to you, Sam. I'm sorry. I do remember. The one beautiful thing in all the Black Land--"

"Hsh," Sam breathed against his shoulder, and kissed the scar he bore there from the Morgul knife. "It's all right."

Frodo's skin prickled as though with chill, and he licked his lips, watching Sam's gentle, callused hand as it slid up towards his shoulder. He looked to Sam's face as Sam's mouth trailed across his collarbone and down his chest; Sam's eyes were still soft, deep with pleasure as he watched his hand moving over Frodo's arm.

"The carver never lived who could capture you in stone," Sam said softly. "I used to look at you, the few times I had the chance, and think as much-- even when I was a lad." His hand moved over Frodo's skin, patient and gentle. "I never thought I'd have such a chance again."

Frodo felt himself blush, the heat of his blood making his face burn. Sam smiled to see it, and sent his tongue questing around Frodo's nipple, making him gasp a little. Sam slid his body up on to the bed and eased himself down at Frodo's side, his hand never leaving Frodo, coaxing pleasure out of him and helping him relax.

"I've waited a lifetime to hold you." Sam nuzzled against Frodo's throat, breath warm in his ear. "And now that I am, it feels too good to be real."

Frodo moaned, lifting impatiently against Sam's hand, quite beyond speaking, but Sam did not hasten, kissing slowly along his throat and breathing warmly against his ear. "I think we ought to take it as slowly as we may," he murmured against Frodo's skin. "For there's still more than a little to be settled between us, though I won't bring it up now." His hand slid down along Frodo's belly. "You've missed so much," he set his teeth lightly on Frodo's skin, nipping at his jaw. "Let me give a little back to you."

Sam reached and drew the coverlet over them, pulling Frodo close; the thick-layered satin cloth lay heavy over them, trapping them in a close hot darkness together. Frodo opened his mouth to breathe, drinking the hot, stifling air like a fish gasping in the bottom of a boat; though it closed out the sight of Sam, it only enflamed Frodo all the more-- it sent a pulse of sensation through him that tingled all the way from the ends of his fingers to the tips of his toes--except that it felt like his dreams, with the tide of flame rolling in to close around him and devour him. Only this time Sam was real; Frodo could still feel him, his strong arms and body a safe haven, holding Frodo in the moment and keeping the fear at bay.

Sam's hand slid down along Frodo's belly and closed around him, and Frodo gasped, air rushing out of him, staring at the ceiling and failing to see it. His memories had faded-- the few there were of them; this was nothing he had known how to expect. Sam's hand felt nothing like his own; it was hard-callused and broad, and every motion startled him with a wash of fresh sensation, until he felt himself so overwhelmed he had to move, to shift and squirm and try to find a way to contain the pleasure.

But then without warning, Sam's comforting embrace was gone and Sam with it, and Frodo felt Sam's mouth settle on him, sliding all the way down with swift skill, hot and liquid and very tight. Startled as much as pleased, Frodo made a choked yell that he knew could be overheard in the marketplace below, and embarrassment drifted through him like sea-wrack on the tide, but he could not contain it-- or others like it, tearing their way free from his chest as Sam's mouth caressed him. He struggled for a moment, unable to lie still in his own skin, floundering and pushing at the sheets that tangled around him, half-smothering him.

His body was quite out of his control, thrashing as Sam's mouth conjured endless waves of pleasure that crashed over him without letting him stop to breathe. Frodo's seeking hands found his pillow and he drew it over his face, biting at it and writhing, trying to stifle his own helpless wailing cries. The pleasure was like a live thing set free inside him, taking over his limbs and making him its own; he had never dreamed such a sensation existed, but Sam wrung it out of him with expert skill, and Frodo thrashed, drowning in it, until Sam's arm came over his hips and held him pinned to the mattress.

Sam's mouth was wet and wicked, searing pleasure across every nerve it touched. The sensations were both wonderful and terrible, and they did not relent. They built and built, unstoppable, and Frodo dimly wondered how dreadful he must sound to those passing below, his choked cries only half-muffled in the pillow. But he could not give himself up to them; he could not surrender to it. This place inside himself was terribly familiar. He knew it all too well, the tiny flicker of his intellect trapped, cut off from the rest and unable to escape, struggling to keep itself alive as insurmountable forces swelled and ripped through him, the pressure crushing the small part of him that remained farther and farther into himself....

With that understanding, the horror he had so precariously fought and held at bay won; it flared to full strength. That small part of him lay prisoned inside himself could do nothing but turn inwards, struggling to survive while it let his body be taken over by the power of the pleasure.

Frodo fought suddenly against overwhelming waves of unreasoning terror and loathing, trapped within himself, far beyond the power of speech, but Sam was patient, and he did not understand.

When Frodo came, he ceased to exist; he knew it and fought it and lost. The only thing he could comprehend was the white-hot explosion of climax possessing him, and that too he remembered-- the obliteration in fire, the possession by forces that ended all thought and mind, the baffled confusion as he swam back up to himself and found himself wrapped in Sam's hold. He lay shaking, unable to speak, his face wet and his heart shriveled inside him. Sam had lifted the coverlets from them, and gently arranged them to lie on their sides, nuzzling lightly at Frodo's curls; he was smiling against Frodo's throat. Frodo shuddered, and Sam's hands stroked him lightly.

Frodo felt like ice, awkward body and sinew rejoined to a mind that did not know what to do with them. Some part of him wanted Sam to turn him to flame again, and he struggled to hold himself very still, feeling his stomach lurch with nausea. He wanted never to touch Sam, never see him again. He wanted Sam's mouth and his hands and his powerful body in spite of himself. He wanted to fling himself from the bed and curl in the corner, where the plaster and grit of wall and floor would not threaten to rouse him again, where he could press his face to the carvings and bite his lips until blood came, and let the pain soothe him back away from the brink of madness.

He did nothing, lying stiff and wooden, patting awkwardly at Sam's hand when it sought his, ignoring Sam's soft murmurs, love-words and endearments, forcing himself to mask his misery, until Sam's breathing grew even and shallow behind him, and Sam's arms loosened in sleep.

Then he crept away and took himself to the baths, where he soaked himself pink and clean without feeling any joy in it, and dressed himself in fresh clothing of Elven make. For a mercy, none came in to bathe before he left the room. He went out on the beach, knowing he should return to Sam but unable to do so until the sting of blowing sand and the calming rush of the surf had wrapped a gentle barrier around the raw, pulsing wounds in his mind.

By the time for luncheon, Frodo thought he could eat again, and rambled back up the beach, making sure to leave no tracks by walking in the fringe of the surf, which would erase them behind him. There was an afternoon and a journey to be got through, and pleasantries must be exchanged with Elrond-- and he must deal with Sam, too.

Frodo's stomach lurched with shame and guilt. Sam would be more than devastated if he knew what he had done to Frodo, though he had been unwitting and had only the best of intentions. Perhaps somehow Frodo could keep Sam from realizing what had happened. But to do so, he must keep Sam at arm's length for a while somehow; he was not sure he could hide his revulsion and his terror if Sam touched him intimately again so soon.

When he walked up on to the stair that mounted to Elrond's house, he was master of himself again, and he found a way to make himself smile when he saw Sam awaiting him on the wooden walkway. The lines of worry around Sam's eyes smoothed out, though the faint crease between his brows remained, and Frodo steeled himself not to flinch when Sam touched him, his gentle arm guiding Frodo inside. His lips touched Frodo's hair and Frodo carefully leaned in to the touch, but his heart fluttered with reluctance that he struggled to hide, even as the touch re-kindled an ember of desire.

He stepped carefully away from Sam as they neared the table, and took his place, bowing to Elrond and Celebrían. Perhaps he might forestall Sam's tenderness with an argument, to gain the time he needed? His stomach twisted. It was an ugly thing to contemplate, setting a lesser pain against a greater, but it was all he could think of.


	15. Departure

There were shaved ices with the luncheon, flavored with fruit and cream, and in spite of himself Frodo sighed with pleasure as he spooned a bite of liquid cold onto his tongue. He could almost have made do without anything else, though the slices of melon and the grapes on the table were also cold and refreshing. Frodo finished his ice, then took a slice of cold ham, some pickles, a few slices off a round white loaf and a bit of cold potato-and-mayonnaise, grateful for Elrond's well-stocked larder, and when his plate was filled he sat down next to Sam. He blushed with confusion when he spied a rosy spot on the side of Sam's throat-- he must have made it the night before.

Celebrían smiled secretly at Frodo, who ducked his head and flushed even hotter. Perhaps everyone would mistake his genuine shame for embarrassment at the novelty of intimacy, and his failure would not be known.

"You look rested," Elrond said to Sam as he walked in with Ellairë cradled on his shoulder. "And soon you will be well-fed." He laid the babe down in a crib at the side of the room, and Frodo watched the lad's tiny fists and feet waving in the air. Sam rose, drawn towards the babe like iron filings to a lodestone, and rose on tiptoe to look into the crib. He chucked the baby under its chin, and was rewarded with a gurgle. One tiny fist, fingers as delicate as the petals on a flower, rose and wrapped around the end of his finger. Sam crooned to the little one, and he kicked joyfully.

Frodo looked down at his plate, his heart suddenly choked with loss and longing, and he made himself cut a bite from his ham with the side of his fork. He chewed mechanically, unable to close his ears; Sam had begun to sing to the child, and it left a hollow ache in Frodo's chest and made him feel quite out of sorts. 

"There is news from the interior," Elrond said gently, his eyes compassionate when Frodo raised his gaze to meet them. "Gandalf asked that you be warned a storm is rising. It will grow tonight."

Frodo nodded; given the heat and the stacked clouds on the horizon, it was not surprising. Glad of the interruption, he began to make plans. "Then Sam and I must leave today. Even if we took ponies and departed now, we could not travel faster than they can trot, and we would still have to ready the smial and bring Bilbo back to Kortirion after."

"If you leave before dusk and ride in your cart with your cow drawing it, that should see you home well before middle-night." Elrond nodded his dark head. "But messages and helpers have already been sent to Bilbo. They will set your home to rights and leave it ready." Elrond paused. "Since Samwise's smial is near at hand, and yet it lies well out of reach of the waves, Gandalf expects Bilbo will prefer to stay there."

"A perfect solution," Sam interjected. "I'd have made it myself, in fact. The place is sturdy, and what with the stone masonry I saw done, I'll warrant it won't leak in any storm. These Elves know how to work the rock so tight it leaves no seams I can find," he explained to Frodo, who felt less than reassured.

"Certainly, he will be more comfortable the less he travels." Frodo hesitated. "How strong will the storm be?" He was quite miserably certain he could not bear the idea of staying as a guest in Sam's home. Not now, at any rate.

"He thought it should be mild, at least as sea-storms go, but the ocean will rise." Elrond spread his hands. "Gandalf could not be sure how far."

Frodo nodded; some storms passed without reaching his smial, while others poured water in, spreading sand and debris across the tile floor. So far, though, none had done more than batter down the front door and disarrange or wash out the wooden furniture they had left inside, soaking the rugs, the damp they brought spoiling the flour in the pantry but leaving the other food undamaged. 

"I will send Bilbo to Sam's, then, and weather the storm in the hole." Frodo lifted his chin with determination, knowing Sam would disagree.

Elrond hesitated, his brow drawing tight in a frown, but it was Sam who first spoke dissent.

"But Frodo," Sam said with dismay, freeing himself from the baby's grasp and stepping near the table. "Won't that be dangerous, if the sea rises?"

"It's rarely risen so far as the smial, and then only a few inches of water came in to wash the floors." Frodo shrugged. "If I remain, I can care for anything that breaks loose, and reduce the damage to the walls and windows."

"I don't like it, Frodo. Better you come with Bilbo, and let the smial tend itself." Sam frowned, and Frodo felt something in his spine arch and stiffen. Perhaps this was something they would have argued over even without the need for Frodo to hide his failure.

"Perhaps," he said curtly, meaning both "No" and "I would prefer not to argue in front of our hosts." From the way Sam's jaw set, he knew it, too, but meant to continue the conversation later. Elrond, ever the polite host, changed the subject and talk continued in a lighter vein.

They finished their luncheon in relative quiet, listening to the Elves converse around them, discussing preparations to protect the boats in the harbor, and the beach pavilions, and the windows with their delicate silken hangings. When Frodo's plate was empty, he rose and thanked their hosts, and then made his way back up to their room, conscious of Sam close at his heels.

"You still mean to stay in the smial, don't you," Sam said, when they were well away from the others.

"I do," Frodo said, a little shortly. He led the way into their room and reached for his pack, starting to stuff his dirty clothing inside.

"Why?" Sam asked, his eyes intent.

"To protect the hole, of course," Frodo answered him, but Sam shook his head.

"You've come to Kortirion before to weather them; Elrond as much as said so."

"Bilbo needed me to bring him here." Frodo shrugged, the motion feeling rather too casual. "Now he doesn't."

"He wouldn't have needed you to bring him here before, if it were safe to stay in the smial." Sam folded his arms and reclined against the couch, eyeing Frodo levelly. "The both of you could have stayed there."

"Wet feet and rough sleeping are inconveniences that wear more sorely on Bilbo's age than on mine." Frodo folded his discarded trousers and pushed them in to the pack.

"And what if the ocean rises more than expected?" Sam asked quietly. "What will Bilbo do then, if you are washed away?"

"The Valar know the sea better than that. Gandalf should not have said a mild storm, if it would grow so bad as to wash the smial away." Frodo pulled the strings of his pack tight and tied them. 

"They did not know how high it would rise." Sam pointed out, reaching for his own pack. "You're being foolhardy, Frodo, and for no reason I can see."

Frodo straightened, staring at Sam with snapping eyes. "And you are an expert, then, in sea-storms, having seen so very many of them?" His polite voice was exaggerated to the point of rudeness, he knew, and he also knew he was evading the point, but that did not concern him. Aside from his need to distance himself from Sam, there was growing annoyance in his heart; he was still his own hobbit, was he not?

"I don't have to see a danger to heed it, especially if Gandalf himself sends warning," Sam snapped in return. "What would he say if he were here to advise you?"

Frodo turned away and moved to tidy the coverlet on his couch, feeling more than a little churlish, but unwilling to back down. "He would say I might do as I pleased."

Sam made a scoffing noise. "And I can just hear the tone he would say it in, too." Frodo could hear him wrestling his gear into his pack. "It would ease my mind, and Bilbo's too, to have you stay with us." His voice fell a little, and Frodo burned with shame for the bafflement in Sam's eyes, but he could not relent.

"Bilbo trusts my judgment." Frodo straightened and slung his pack over his shoulder. He felt churlish and resentful. "Let's go ready the cart." He did not look back at the couch where they had lain together.

It took much of the afternoon to sort out their purchases and load them, for the livestock had to be fed and watered, and then crated and loaded. Sam's cow nuzzled at him fondly, and he petted her velvet nose, but there was a fretful frown on his face, and he was quiet as they worked. When they were ready, he stepped over and put his hand on Frodo's shoulder.

Frodo had sensed his approach and was ready; he straightened, feeling half-penitent when he saw the look on Sam's face, but still stubborn in his purpose. Sam's hands and arms jerked abortively, as though he would like to step forward and wrap Frodo in a hug, but he did not move; Frodo turned away, struggling for a moment to compose his face.

"It will be fine, Sam." He patted Sam's shoulder awkwardly and didn't pause, heading back in to the house. "Let's have dinner and make our farewells; I want to arrive at home before daybreak."

And so they returned inside and readied provisions for their journey, then joined the company, sharing fellowship and wine until time for dinner, which they ate at the head table with Elrond and Celebrían. Frodo felt awkward and somewhat false sitting beside Sam, making polite and sociable small talk, when he knew they would resume their disagreement later. It felt very odd to look at Sam's hands, which had so lately touched him with reverence and passion, and not know whether he should have let them, or whether they would again. Perhaps Sam regretted their intimacy, now that it had not given him the power he wanted.

Frodo bit his lip; the mistrustful thought tasted bitter. In truth, he knew Sam had not meant the previous evening as a bid for power-- but the fact remained, he had assumed that their closeness granted it. This was just the sort of suspicion you had to endure, after bearing the Ring: it had engraved on his mind that every interaction, no matter how innocent or well-intended it seemed, could be used for ill, and it seemed Frodo could not divorce himself from that knowledge.

When the meal was finished, they said their farewells, promising to return soon, and the Elves went in to the gardens. Frodo followed them, Sam trailing in his wake; the Sun had sunk behind the Mountains; already, and the air was growing cooler. "We'll start now, I think," Frodo said, conscious that he was not inviting Sam's participation in the decision.

"Yes," Sam said, and quietly walked past him, taking the path down towards the stable where their cart and the cow awaited. She would draw the cart and they would walk, it had been decided, and Sam might ride if he grew weary. 

Sam hitched up the cow while Frodo gave the load a last check. The hens clucked sleepily, already nestling down for the night, their feathers ruffled and their heads tucked under their wings, so that they looked rather like fat, fluffy puffball mushrooms. The sacks and crates were well-set, just as they had been placed earlier. Sam clucked to the cow, which ambled out obediently in his wake, and Frodo took up a position on the cart seat, ready to use the brake as they descended the hill.

It took until full dark for them to leave the outskirts of the city behind, and Frodo felt peace creeping in around the edges of his mind as they walked amidst the sighing grasses. They said little, and the cart creaked rhythmically, a treble counterpoint to the slow percussive steps of the cow. In the east, the clouds flickered with jagged forks of lightning, and from time to time the warning rumble of thunder could be heard, low and faraway. The Moon must have risen, by Frodo's reckoning, but he was hidden behind the clouds. Luckily, the bright stars gave enough light to walk safely, and the distant lightning occasionally lit the dunes, drawing the shadow of each blade of grass in sharp relief. 

He waited for Sam to broach their argument again, but Sam did not, walking alongside the cow with his stick tapping the paving stones, buried in silent thought.

As the night darkened, Frodo felt as though he were sinking in to deep, still water. They had reached a stretch of road where the dunes turned to tumbles of weathered coral-stone, and their path traveled alongside the beach. The land seemed to flatten into a dull mirror that reached up and met the shining bowl of the sky. Even the waves ceased, blocked by a wide semicircle of reef that stretched far into the ocean. The air ebbed and flowed about them like a gentle tide, and the starry sky was mirrored on the ocean, shifting and dancing.

Without speaking, they drew up for a halt, and opened the sack that held their food and wine. Sam tied a well-filled feed-bag on to the cow's nose, and they stepped away from the cart to eat. A convenient flat stone served as both bench and table, and they sat down side by side, looking across the gently rippling coral lagoon to the breakers that crested pale under the stars, far away. 

The wine was strong, but rather than going to Frodo's head, it seemed to spread all throughout him, sending a gentle lassitude through his limbs. Beside him, Sam was nodding a bit. The cow champed quietly in her feed-bag, a drowsy sound. The air seemed full of portent, waiting, as though sensing the oncoming storm. Frodo could almost hear words in its soft murmur, in harmony with the low bass rumble of the thunder, and the distant hiss of the surf. The Moon had finally risen high enough to overtop the clouds, and Frodo thought he sailed near to the land, looking down upon them with his warm yellow lamp.

"Sam, look!" Frodo said at last, his tongue feeling heavy and slow; he rose to his feet with an effort and pointed to the horizon. A single ship sailed along the coast, silent and serene, its low gunwales steady on the water, its majestic sails filled with wind. The ship was like none he had ever seen, but he knew it instantly for all of that: upon its prow stood a tall Vala, clad in silver mail like fishes' scales, his long, dark beard trailing in the wind and the water. He held a trident in his hand. Dolphins arced out of the water and splashed back in, playing in the wake of the ship. Flying fish darted and jumped at her prow, and a soft, phosphorescent trail followed her across the sea. Sea-spirits flanked the ship, dancing in the waves, their long hair swirling in the water.

"It's Ulmo," Frodo whispered, reverent, and felt water rise about his ankles as he stepped forth, answering the siren call of the ship, fear and disagreement forgotten. "Come on, Sam!"


	16. Ulmo

Sam followed, judging by the splashes, and Frodo led him out, but when the shallow lagoon rose to their chests, Sam stopped. The ship was drawing near and Frodo fidgeted, almost beside himself with urgency. Sam could not swim, it was true, but....

"Hold on to my shoulders, and I'll swim for both of us," he told Sam, and reached for his hands, positioning them as he wanted. Though he could feel Sam's reluctance in the stiffness of his body and the slowness of his steps, Frodo drew him further out, until the water deepened so that they must swim. Frodo did, bobbing low in the water with Sam clinging desperately but bravely to his back, shivering each time a ripple in the water washed over Frodo's face.

But Frodo was a strong swimmer, his muscles tempered by years of hard work, and in the calm water, it was not long until they reached the reef. Puffing, Frodo helped Sam clamber up onto a boulder that protruded from the water, washed smooth by the tide. He followed, and they stood there together, wavelets lapping about their feet. A dolphin leaped only a few feet away, and splashed them as he dove back into the dark water. 

The sails of the ship were like the broad, flat leaves of waterlilies, and the ribs visible at her gunwale gleamed wetly, curved like the ribs of some immense leviathan creature. The ship was encrusted with shell and pearl, shimmering under the stars, and a few Maiar, slender and tightly muscled, their bare chests pale in the starlight, labored on the decks and worked to tend the sails as they glided along.

The hobbits could hear the creak of the ropes and sails aboard the ship, and see the wind flutter and lift the Vala's cloak. He looked upon them, eyes sea-green and deep, and Frodo felt himself known. His heart raced with joy, and song swelled in his throat, but did not break forth; the sea-spirits swam at his feet, and he could feel their hair brush his ankles. A broad school of bright silver fish turned their bellies to the stars all at once, then flitted away into the depths.

Frodo groped for Sam's hand and pressed it to steady him; a dim dark shape was drawing near them, pulled by a dolphin with a rope in its long bottle-jaws. Without surprise, Frodo recognized his own small boat, freed from its moorings and fetched for them.

He stepped into it when it drew up, steadying it automatically, and again Sam followed, rather less gracefully, clinging to the gunwales and threatening to tip them both in to the sea. When he had settled, the dolphins drew them forth into the shadow of the ship, and a rope ladder was flung down where they might catch it and climb aboard. Frodo did so eagerly, and Sam followed with rather more caution.

They were still moving, and near ahead the breakers turned savage, catching upon a tumbled point of stone. The ship rolled slightly and turned, carrying them away from the treacherous point. Frodo stepped forward, feeling a little shy, and Sam followed near, a constant shadow. Ulmo stood waiting in the bow. His long hair blew overboard and twined with the gleaming sea-wrack. 

Ulmo turned, majestic and slow, and smiled down upon them; he reached out, his arm extending until his long finger pressed lightly against Frodo's forehead. "Your beasts will be well," he said. "Your cow has been shown the way home. I would have you ride with me tonight." His voice was rich and layered, rumbling like the low thunder of the in caves and spout holes, at the same time singing with a vast and rippling music that traveled beyond the reach of hearing.

"We are honored," Sam said, his voice soft and reverent, and Frodo echoed him in chorus. Together they knelt, and Ulmo raised them to their feet again.

"You were brave to come out so far, little land-dweller," he addressed Sam, a slow smile stretching his broad face. 

"I trust in Frodo," Sam said simply, and Frodo felt a pang of familiar guilt at the sincerity of his tone. Such faith he hardly deserved, given his churlish behavior.

"And tonight you may trust in me," Ulmo answered him gravely. "Ossë is nearby, riding upon the winds and stoking the storm as he wills, but he cannot touch you while you are aboard this vessel." Ulmo turned away and set one hand on the rail of the ship, which swung away from the land, following the curve of the reef as it arced back out to sea. "We will sail along the coast, and look over the creatures of the sea as they make ready for the storm." He extended his arm, inviting them to go to the rail and look over, and they obeyed, Sam clinging tightly to the wood. 

The ship was broad, but her draft was shallow, and they rode over the sunken reef as they sailed. Frodo smiled down at the delicate branched corals--all shades of green and yellow and red and white, with soft lacy fans undulating in the tide, and schools of brightly colored fishes swimming about, darting in and out of the coral. In places, constellations of starfish in all shades of red and rust lay spread upon soft, rippled plains of sand, and horse-shoe crabs, swam there, and vast rays with outstretched bodies like wings, skimming along and playing tag with the shadow of the ship.

Sam murmured with delight, pointing from time to time to call Frodo's attention to some wonder he had glimpsed in the moonlight. They skimmed deeper waters now, and Frodo saw a vast whale with a craggy grey head, its song of greeting humming in the timbers of the ship and making Sam gasp with wonder and clutch the railing with both hands, the better to feel it. A few jellyfish floated near the surface, their long coiled tendrils stretched behind them. Sam marveled at their delicacy and the way they swam, hitching through the water. 

Spray fell when they broke the waves, and soon soaked their hair; Sam shivered a little and his warm shoulder touched Frodo's. The sails creaked and the timbers made a low groan as they evened their course to pass beyond the long promontory of land that sheltered Frodo's little dock. The wind caught them and sped them forward.

"It feels like standing still; I almost can't feel us moving," Sam said, but the ocean bottom showed the truth: they were sailing briskly.

"We're nearly home," Frodo said, and pointed. Sam strained his eyes and shaded them against the moon. 

"If you say so, but the beach all looks quite the same to me!" 

Ulmo stirred from his post at the prow of the ship, and came near them; his sea-green eyes sought Frodo's. "You are home, but the storm will break before you were told. Even now it moves to strike, and though the Mountains will hold much of it at bay, it will pass along the coast as it goes southward, the better to find the fleets of Men."

Frodo bowed low. "We are grateful for your courtesy, my lord Ulmo." He spoke in Quenya without thinking. "You honor us."

Ulmo answered in kind. "You are welcome, but be warned. The waters here hearken to me, and they will not take you, now or ever. But they are not the only danger in sea-storms. Beware Ossë, for his wrath is hot and he does not distinguish between the races of mortal-kind." 

He reached and laid his hand on Frodo's head, and blessed him, and also Sam. Then their boat was brought alongside, and they climbed down in to it, Sam awkward and wary on the rope-ladder, and ill-at-ease in the little boat, clinging to the gunwales as it rose and fell upon the swells. 

"The waves grow strong; ride carefully." Ulmo raised his hand to them, and Frodo unshipped the oars, dipping them in the water. 

The shadow of the great ship slid away from them, and the Moon shone down; Frodo judged he would sink behind the mountains not long after they reached the shore. He rowed, looking back until the ship was lost to his sight, gliding away southward down the shore.

Sam's knuckles were white on the wood, and he bit his lip as the waves rose higher, tossing the boat about; they were nearing the shore, where the waves crested and broke. It would be a tricky business beaching without turning over in the process; Frodo was accustomed to avoiding the surf and tying his boat up at its dock. But he had done this before, and Sam's weight would help.

"Stay low in the boat," he instructed. "And don't lean towards the sides."

Sam obeyed, and to Frodo's relief they made it through the surf with no worse than a drenching, though it was a near thing, and Frodo had to jab the end of his oar against the sand at the end to steady them. Frodo had miscalculated the Moon's assistance; cloud fingers had veiled his light as they neared the shore, and thicker clouds threatened to block it altogether as they scraped on to the sand with a bump. Foam splashed and ran about them as another wave broke, pale foam and mottled green water running together far up the beach.

Frodo jumped out and pushed farther ashore, so Sam could debark easily; together they hoisted the boat and carried it up the beach towards the smial, Frodo leading. The Moon had gone completely, but the path was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand, and he needed no light to find it, his toes curling around the familiar stones. Flickers of lightning helped, coming frequently from the east. They lit the night in flares of silver-blue and garish red. Angry growls of thunder boomed across the waters, near-constant, though Frodo could not remember hearing them aboard Ulmo's ship, and surely they should have.

"Mind you don't stub your toes," he warned, and they went slowly. Ulmo was right; the wind was picking up already, driving sand and spray before it. Perhaps his presence had shielded them from the storm. 

The smial was dark-- Bilbo had already gone. Frodo closed the door and went for a light, dithering. He lit a lamp and carried it in to Sam, then lit several others. There were hooks in the pantry ceiling; the boat could hang there. They dusted off the sand as well as they could and carried it in, the lamps flickering in the gust from the door. Then they hung it, a difficult process that involved more than a few mashed fingers and a bit of puffing.

When Frodo turned away from it, satisfied, Sam was blocking the pantry door, and his chin was set with determination.

"I don't know what's set your hackles up, but I reckon you mean to stay here through the storm in spite of the world." Sam folded his arms. 

Frodo thought of Ulmo's warning-- it had clearly meant he should not stay so close to the sea in a storm, but Sam had not understood it, and this fresh challenge put his back up, so he remained silent. 

"And if I know you, you won't hear aught said of reasons for leaving." Sam paused, his eyes intent, and still Frodo said nothing, drawing himself up warily. The argument he had waited for all evening was come, it seemed.

"At any rate, if you won't leave this place, then I won't either." Sam concluded flatly. "If the wind carries us off or the waves break the doors in, I reckon we'll both drown, and that'll be an end to us." There were hectic patches of color on his cheeks, and his voice shook when he mentioned drowning, but he steadied it and stood firm. 

The threat gave Frodo pause; he stared at Sam, groping for an answer. "You aren't staying here. As you've pointed out yourself, you can't swim." It came to him that Ulmo had only included Frodo in his promise of protection from the waters; he had never mentioned Sam. 

"And you can't dodge the lightning, or hold up the walls of the smial if the water brings it down about your ears." Sam shook his head. "I'll see you safe, Frodo, or I'll take my chances at your side. If it's safe for you, it's safe for me, or it isn't safe for neither. If the smial falls in, don't tell me knowing how to swim will make more than a thimbleful of difference; I know better. I'm not a fool, you know. Nor are you, I would have said before today!"

Frodo fought a surge of anger, groping for words that might persuade Sam to go. "Bilbo needs you," he flung out quickly, the first thing that came to his mind.

"Bilbo needs you." Sam answered, just as rapidly. "He's perfectly safe where he is."

"But I want you to go. Your gardens need you too, and you're the only one who can tend them."

"The gardens can blow away to Mordor for all of me." Sam did not budge a hair. 

"But you must. Who will tend the cow when she arrives? It's all right," Frodo coaxed. "You should go now, before the storm worsens."

"You're that desperate to have me to be off and leave you here, as if I'm a thing more fearsome than drowning, though it's a puzzle as to why." Sam shook his head, frustrated. "It seemed we were doing so well, Frodo! I don't know what the trouble is. Did I hurt you somehow? Did I frighten you? Do you regret what we did?" His voice shook.

Sam's words struck home, and Frodo felt blood drain from his face, leaving him dizzy and enervated. Anger stirred in his breast, and with the need to defend himself came cruelty. "You don't own me. You aren't welcome to stay." Frodo tried to keep his voice under control; it wobbled wildly. "I don't want you here."

"I don't care if you do." Sam said, and he seemed steady again, though his eyes were deep with grief. "That may have worked once, but it won't work twice. I'm staying."

"I won't drown."

"You can't know that." Sam's obstinate manner changed to pleading. "I don't know what I've done, Frodo, but surely it can be mended, if you'll only tell me."

Frodo turned away, struggling to form words. "Leave me," he finally said, very quietly. "I would be alone."

"I'll be down the hall, then." The stubborn note never left Sam's voice, and he pattered away. A door shut crisply behind him.

Sam would not leave, and there was only one thing Frodo could do to make him. He clenched his fists, nails cutting into his palms with frustration. He contemplated simply going out, vanishing into the night, but the only shelter near enough to reach before the storm hit was Sam's smial. Besides, he knew Sam would only try to follow him, and get lost into the bargain, like as not--and Frodo was not fool enough to believe either of them should try to weather the coming storm out of doors. He slammed into his bedroom instead, and stared about, more emotions than he could name struggling for dominance in his heart. 

The room had already been readied for the storm, the bedstead lifted up on flat paving stones so that water might not reach the mattress, and its covers tucked up instead of left to trail. The bottom drawers of the dresser had been drawn out and piled upon its top. Frodo's few treasures and his precious books had gone from their places on the shelves, and his wardrobe lay empty. Elves must have come and helped Bilbo prepare the smial for leaving.

He went out quietly, hoping Sam would not hear his door, and investigated the pantries--they too were ready, and the kitchen as well. The wind made a low, hollow moaning about the shutters as he stood in the parlor, casting about for alternatives. 

He knew, of course, that he could not stay here and risk that the storm might take Sam, and of course, Sam also knew that very well.

He stalked down the hall, feeling helpless and angry, to rap on Sam's door. "Get ready. We're leaving," he said shortly, his face full of bitter heat. Sam emerged, ready without having to pause so much as a moment, and Frodo stared at him. "You must have been a force to be reckoned with as Mayor," he observed, hearing the coldness in his voice, and the resentment. He clung to them even as part of him wept.

Sam's chin lifted and he met Frodo's stare quietly, without yielding. "Not so much at first," he said very softly. "But I learned when to stand firm, and how."

"Yes, you did." Frodo turned on his heel and led the way out.


	17. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The layout for Sam's hobbit hole was partly inspired by Elenya's story _All That I Had._

The wind was considerably stronger, battering at them with its cargo of sand and spray; as yet, it was no worse than some winter winds Frodo had endured, and a good deal warmer than most. What troubled him was the lightning. Thunder roared, shuddering through them and threatening to knock them off their feet, and lightning flared overhead, crackling through the clouds in vivid yellow, like a mallorn tree in flower, with forks and branches going everywhere. The lightning often struck the dunes; Frodo had at times found narrow twisted shapes of sand molded into glass where lightning had struck the land, and he remembered Ulmo's warning.

Sam huddled close and Frodo let him. "Let's hurry," he said, and they scampered along the board-walk together. 

The thunder heralded rain, which began to pour as if someone had opened a dam in the firmament. It rendered footing treacherous, and if not for his arm around Frodo's waist, Sam might have fallen. Frodo braced him up, and they slowed perforce.

It was still well before midnight; without their voyage aboard Ulmo's ship, they would have been caught miles from home with the storm bearing down upon them. Frodo spared a moment to worry for the cow, but reminded himself to trust in Ulmo, who had said she would be well. Then he thought only of himself and Sam, as the wind whirled and raindrops stung his face.

"The cow," Sam shouted over the wind, and Frodo shook his head; it was no use talking. They were nearly to the turn when a terrible clap of thunder drove them to their knees, and at the same instant, lightning flared crimson-white. They huddled for a moment on the boards as if struck blind, clinging to one another and waiting to feel if they were still alive.

The cold, pelting force of the rain redoubled as the night closed in again. "That was a near one!" Sam shouted over the wind, and he reached for Frodo's shoulder. Frodo shrugged off the help, climbing to his feet. He blinked, struggling to regain his sight, looking out at the faces of the dunes, blurred by rain running in to his eyes.

They hastened along, slipping and sliding a bit on the wet wood, but Frodo felt unaccountably safer once they entered Sam's little valley, the hilltops sheltering them from the worst of the wind, with the orchard trees to draw the lightning. Then they were on the paving stones that threaded through Sam's yard, and at last Frodo felt the steps to Sam's porch beneath his feet, and he hesitated, reluctant, unreasoning panic fluttering in his breast. The front windows were not shuttered, and light spilled through, and in the glow he saw the cow awaiting them, standing patiently in the rain with her cart still hitched to her harness. She no longer wore her nose-bag. The chickens, soaked and unhappy in their little coops, clucked and shook their wet feathers with agitation.

Frodo stood blinking at the cow, and she lowed at him; Sam paused in the midst of reaching for the door-knob and looked up at her.

"Some kind of Elf-magic must have brought her here before us, I reckon," he said. "That Ulmo must have more power than just over ships and fishes, I'll warrant."

"I'll tend her and put her up," Frodo answered. "You go in." Perhaps he might yet return home.

But no; Sam was too wise for that. "I'll help you," he offered, and followed Frodo with frustrating prudence. Together they drew cow and cart both in to the little byre that Sam and the Elves had raised and made ready for her and the chickens. Frodo's goats milled inside one stall, bleating and kicking at the wooden walls. Frodo and Sam rubbed the cow down with bits of cloth and filled the manger, then fed the chickens as well. Finally Frodo slipped out and went about testing the shutters on the windows, and again Sam followed him, then led him towards the smial, where the round windows spilled warm light out in circles that wavered with the rain.

There was nowhere else to go, and no good reason to delay.

They climbed up on the porch and Sam opened the door. "Won't you come in?" He suggested very gently, and Frodo had no choice but to accept the invitation.

He stood dripping on a soft brown rug just inside the entry while Sam closed the wide round door behind them. Bilbo stepped forward, holding a lamp, his wizened old face wreathed in smiles. "I was beginning to worry for you lads! You're both so wet you might as well be drowned."

Frodo slowly shed his coat and then his waistcoat, and Sam took them, bustling away to fetch dry clothes for them both. Frodo let his eyes roam, curious in spite of himself.

"How was your journey?" Bilbo began unbuttoning Frodo's shirt, rather fussily, and Frodo waved him away.

"Good enough," he answered, only half listening. The smial reminded him of Bag End, only it did not; or perhaps he should say it reminded him of Bag End, but in a completely different way from his and Bilbo's own little hole by the sea. There was wood paneling to accent and warm the stonework of the walls; the floor was neatly tiled, and the furnishings were of Elven make, but very homelike nonetheless. Wrought metal lamps glowed in the hall, Elven-craft, but somehow they belonged. A wooden bench with velvet seat and elegant curved legs stood by the door, and a foot-bath nestled under it, but Frodo was too wet to sit there. 

Pictures of Sam's family and friends were hung all about. They were cunningly framed--by the work of Sam's own hands, Frodo guessed, though with evidence of the Elves' help there, too; they were preserved under panes of glass. The wood in their frames was rough, but well-joined. Frodo recognized Pippin looking down from one wide frame, distinguished with age, but recognizable nonetheless, with crinkles of laughter around his eyes, and wings of silver in his hair. Frodo clenched his jaw against a surge of jealous anger; he had no right to jealousy.

He could glimpse chairs and a parlor to his right; the parlor there was large, and well-fitted with furniture for both Elves and hobbits. A wide fireplace stood empty, piled neatly with logs, and a glass of wine, half-drunk, stood on a little round table next to one of the hobbit-sized sofas. A book lay open next to it.

"Gandalf told me to expect you just after nightfall," Bilbo explained. "There's a cold supper waiting in the kitchen." He waved towards it; apparently it lay somewhere on the left-hand side of the smial.

"Ah, Frodo. There you are!" Gandalf emerged from just that direction, and Frodo realized he was standing upright; the ceilings were tall enough for Elves, and perhaps that was part of what had made the place feel less like Bag End. 

"You'll find this place is very well put together," Bilbo told him. "There's a hall just for us hobbits, and another for Elves and big enough for all manner of company, with guest rooms and all necessary accommodations. The common areas are all like this: suited for both. It's very comfortable, once you learn your way around!"

"I'm sure." Frodo nodded, polite. Sam was returning, still wearing his own wet clothes, but holding towels in his hands. Frodo took one and dried his face and hair as well as he could. 

"Shall I show you to your room so you can change for dinner?" Sam offered, and Frodo nodded, uncertain, then followed as Sam led him in to the hall. He dripped on the clean tiles, and his toes curled with embarrassment.

The place was much larger than Bag End, that was clear, and it spread along the hillside in both directions. The hobbits' hallway cut back through the hill next to the kitchen, and curved around it, with three rooms set in to the bank side so that they might each have windows and air. Frodo noted that the rear portion of the smial was devoted to storage closets, pantries, and a bathing room: all very practical and convenient. He assumed the other end of the hole was similar, though undoubtedly much larger.

Sam showed him to a fine room with two windows, both tightly shuttered against the storm. The bed had a green velvet coverlet, and looked wide and comfortable. Frodo's things had been laid neatly about: the bookshelves were filled with his books and treasures, and the wardrobe contained his clothing. 

After seeing Frodo settled, Sam nodded his way out and shut the door.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Bilbo chuckled, but his eyes were pleased. "I arranged your room myself, of course."

His room? Frodo chafed against the words, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and his breeches and wrapping them in the towel. He went to the wardrobe and chose new ones. The dresser held his underthings, and he put a pair of them on.

"Was Elrond well, and the babe? You must tell me all about your trip. Don't you want a bath?"

Slowly Frodo ran a comb through his sandy hair and dressed, answering Bilbo's questions. He felt as though he were far outside himself, listening as though to a stranger while he spoke of the journey to Kortirion, and the market there, in measured, dull phrases: "And then we bought a cow, and some chickens as well. There were ices and sherbet with the dinner. The baby didn't often cry. Ulmo brought us home on his ship."

Bilbo listened attentively for all of that, and took satisfaction in the news of Ellairë, in whom he was keenly interested. "I shall have to stir myself out and visit them," he said. "Though it is such a terribly long trip, and so hot in the summer-time."

"Perhaps they will come here." The place was clearly designed for it. 

"I live in hope." Bilbo laughed. "But more seriously, Frodo. How did things go with Sam?"

"Fine," Frodo half-lied. "Quite well until we argued over the storm. I received word from Gandalf that it would be quite mild. I meant to weather it in the hole by the beach."

Bilbo clicked his tongue. "But my dear boy, why would you want to?" He spread his arms out wide. "Especially if you and Sam are getting along well." He winked.

"I don't mean to live here," Frodo said stubbornly, flushing at the wink. "I am quite content where we are."

"I suppose if you want to cart our things back and forth all summer long," Bilbo said slowly, "Then you can, of course."

Frodo stiffened. Of course Bilbo would not want to do that, though he would if Frodo asked. "You should stay here, just for the summer," he said, making his voice light. His heart felt as though it had turned to ashes and dust. "And perhaps for the winter as well; the cold and the spray aren't good for your health."

"But we agreed to stay together." Bilbo reached and clasped Frodo's shoulder.

A tap came on the door, and Frodo carefully stepped away. "We'll talk later," he evaded, and went to the door, where Sam stood waiting. 

"Will you have a bit of supper?" He looked a bit worn, the lines visible around his eyes, and Frodo guessed he had probably been having a quiet word with Gandalf.

"That would be just the thing," Bilbo answered. "Come along, Frodo."

Frodo followed in their wake. They went in to the kitchen together and each carried part of the food out to the dining room, where a clever table with legs of different lengths spanned two levels, with steps down to a deeper floor for Gandalf and any other tall visitors to sit across from the hobbits without having to crouch to reach their plates. 

Gandalf, of course, was eyeing Frodo before ever they sat down, and repeated Bilbo's questions in essence, if not in particulars. Frodo answered once again, looking down at his plate and making himself chew and swallow. The food was good, the vegetables refreshing and tender, but he could not bring himself to care as much as he ought. He glanced at the shutters, hearing the wind howl over the ridge, and wondered how much damage would be done to his own home and to Sam's garden.

"The storm will be a bit stronger than we first expected, and it is moving faster," Gandalf was saying, helping himself to bread-and-butter. "When I learned of it, you had already departed Kortirion and there was nothing to be done, but I got a message through to Ulmo, and I gather you were met."

"We were," Frodo said after a too-long pause in which Sam failed to speak. He knew little of how messages passed among the Valar; perhaps through some mechanism like the _palantiri _. "He brought us down the coast. I don't know how the cow got here so quickly; she didn't ride with us."__

____

____

Gandalf's eyes twinkled, and he took a bite of his bread-and-butter sandwich. "Very mysterious," he said with his mouth full, in a tone that clearly indicated no further information was forthcoming. "Ulmo is fond of you, Frodo." Gandalf changed the subject handily as he reached for his wine and swallowed. "Much of what you love most of Valinor is to be found in his realm."

"Yes," Frodo said mildly, managing not to dart his eyes towards Sam. "He said that I should never be drowned in the waters of Valinor." On the periphery of Frodo's vision he could see Sam blinking surprise, and he felt a certain measure of petty satisfaction. 

"That promise he will keep," Gandalf nodded, solemn. "But there are other hazards than water in the sea."

"So I am told," Frodo said, his voice a little dry.

"So the storm is a strong one after all," Sam said, sounding a little defensive; by the looks of his plate, he was not particularly interested in his food.

"It will be rather stronger than initially planned, I'm afraid." Gandalf took a bite of bread and another of Sam's fresh green beans. "Ossë's wrath is swift to kindle and slow to cool. Though the worst of the wind should blow over this valley without touching us, if I do say so myself." He looked pleased and mischievous again. 

"We are grateful to the Lord Manwë," Frodo said, employing a shrewd guess; sixty years of even Gandalf's discretion was insufficient to conceal all secrets, and Frodo had eventually learned to which of the Valar Gandalf most owed his allegiance-- and much of his power. 

"Indeed." Gandalf chuckled, with a wry glance at Frodo. "Manwë governs the airs, and all authority over them comes through him-- be it mine, or be it Ossë's."

That seemed to be the end of the discussion, and perhaps, Frodo hoped, the last gasp of his argument with Sam. They were quieter than their wont as they finished supper, but then, it was late and they had all had a long day. When they had finished, Frodo took his turn in the kitchen washing plates, and then tried to slip away to his room unobserved.

He did not succeed; Sam's voice caught him halfway through the door on his way in to the hall. "Frodo?"

Sam's tone was tender and a little sad, but hopeful; Frodo felt like a rabbit at bay, cornered by hounds, as he turned to face his dearest of friends. He could not bear knowing he must be cruel again to keep Sam at arm's length.

The words hovering on Sam's tongue changed when Sam saw his expression; Frodo watched them fade as Sam's face sagged, looking suddenly weary and old. "Sleep well," was all he said, and he turned away towards the shuttered window, resting his hands on the counter.

Frodo's stomach clenched with self-hatred and he hesitated in the door. No matter what he did, he hurt Sam beyond reason.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he choked. "It's all my fault." He turned and fled down the hall, glad that neither Gandalf nor Bilbo were between him and his room, where he sat down on the bed and stared down at his clenched fists, their knuckles squeezed white.


	18. Confession

When Frodo was not pursued, he slowly began to calm. He sat quietly and listened to the sounds in the smial around him as the others settled for bed: their voices were muffled and faint, but there. He needed a bath; he was covered with fine grit and felt sticky from rain and sweat. Bilbo was having one, from the sound of it; he sang merrily, and Sam must be with him, but if so, he was quieter. So that he could hear above the storm, Frodo crept over and listened at his door, which he held ever so slightly open for there was no latch or keyhole. He could be in there with them; he could be laughing and singing. He wanted to be, but he could not bring himself to go.

Frodo pressed the door shut quickly as the others emerged from the bath. He could see Sam's sturdy body even with his eyes tight-shut, and remember the taste of him, and the feel of him, solid and warm, filling his hand. His breath came shallow, and he hissed very softly, thinking of Sam's mouth.

The smial quieted almost immediately, with the soft closing of two doors, and then there was only the flutter of the lamp in its glass chimney, slowly dimming as soot built up inside; he needed to turn down the wick, but he did not move, his fingers clenched so tight on the knob they pained him.

He wanted Sam: part of him wanted to hold Sam and be held, and nothing more, but part of Frodo wanted more. He craved Sam's mouth on him, longed to feel the pleasure and comfort of Sam's touch. He wanted to come that way again, even as the thought of it twisted his stomach with distress and terror. He could have it; he knew he could. Sam would welcome him without question, or if there were questions, Frodo could silence them with his mouth and body and have what he wanted without them. Sam would let him; Sam would give whatever he asked. But Frodo could not go to him that way; he would not. The look of resignation and defeat on Sam's face in the kitchen would have been enough to dissuade him, if nothing else.

He had done little else but hurt Sam from the moment he set foot in Valinor. He owed him an apology for his rude behavior of the past day-- and more, he owed him truth. Frodo swallowed hard; in his mind's eye he could see Celebrían, and hear her advice, her clear, high voice like a silver bell. She had told him what he must do: he must tell Sam of his fears, no matter how hard it might be.

Frodo bowed his head, ashamed and still pinned between loneliness and pride-- but loneliness won. His hand turned the knob before ever he made the decision to go out, and he found himself in the hall. But once he was there, he realized he did not know which door was Bilbo's and which was Sam's, so he hesitated, then turned to go back down towards the parlour. He fetched out his lamp, turning down the smoking wick, and padded silently along the hall. Perhaps he could curl up on one of the comfortable chairs in the parlor and read a book.

He was surprised, and yet somehow not, to find Sam was there before him. He looked up when Frodo's light intruded, and Frodo saw that the shutter was open; Sam had been standing there alone in the dark, looking out into the storm. His cheeks were wet, and he wiped at them furtively, straightening.

Frodo hesitated, then padded in, setting his lamp upon the table. Sam was wearing his night-shirt and his feet were pink and clean from the bath. He stood without speaking, watching Frodo enter the room and step timidly near to him. His hands hung open at his sides; he still looked weary and resigned. Gandalf, though he did not sleep as hobbits did, was nowhere to be seen.

This close to Sam, Frodo realized he did not know what to say; he simply stepped nearer until he could take Sam's hand and draw him to one of the overstuffed velvet chairs-- one meant for Elves, wide and tall, but it suited Frodo's purpose. He climbed in and drew Sam up after him, and then curled Sam against him, pillowing Sam's head on his shoulder. Sam was shivering a little, and Frodo laid his cheek against Sam's clean, damp curls and sighed. They felt very soft, fine and white, touched by golden lamplight.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Sam nodded against Frodo's chest, but did not lift his head, and Frodo knew he was still weeping silently.

"I can't help it," he continued, his voice ragged. "It isn't easy for me, Sam. But I'm trying."

"I know." Sam's voice sounded a little thick, congested and hoarse. "They say I've only to have patience, Bilbo and Gandalf do. I'm trying, too. But it's cruel hard sometimes."

Frodo nodded, biting his lip; even in the face of Sam's pain, he was at a loss to explain what had happened. A curious noise came out of his chest, part sob, part sigh, and part chuckle. "You've had sixty years' worth of patience. It isn't fair you should have to endure even now."

Sam snuffled a little and nodded, and Frodo held him quietly, feeling the softness of Sam's hair against his cheek, wondering how in the world to begin. He could not be sure that even Sam would understand!

"What was it like," he said suddenly, without knowing he meant to speak until he heard the words dangling in the air. "When you bore the Ring?"

Sam blinked, and the question startled him enough that he forgot his tears and looked up at Frodo. "Same as I told you for the book," he said, and frowned. "Though it isn't the same, somehow, telling-- not the same as feeling."

Frodo nodded. "You said it offered you a garden-- a garden as big as a whole land, and you in charge of it."

"It did," Sam nodded. "Though it didn't speak, as such-- I just saw myself striding about with it on my finger, and the land opened up before me, with everything in blossom, trees and vines and all. And I knew I was King of that land, and all I said would happen just as I liked. And I knew I was strong and wise, somehow."

Frodo bit his lip. "It spun visions for you."

Sam nodded. "It did. Though it didn't have time to spin much, I reckon. And the funny thing was, it's like what it offered me come true, after. When I'd said no and done my bit to be rid of the thing, and I went home to the Shire and went to live in Bag End, and turned Mayor...." He reached into his pocket and drew out a kerchief, blowing his nose. "Only that was better than anything it ever promised." He paused for a long time, tucking the kerchief away again, and when he spoke again, his voice was timid.

"You never said much about the Ring before you went, not even in the Red Book, as far as I can remember. What did it offer you?"

Frodo bent his head. "It didn't." He carefully put his free hand on his lap. "At least, not for long. There were times-- I remember a vision in the barrow, when I saw myself leaving you and Merry and Pippin to die, while I ran away, free." He cleared his throat. "But that was only the beginning. It was stronger than that, and it did not care for subtlety. The visions-- they were tests, perhaps; the Ring was using them to learn its way into our minds looking for chinks to set roots into, like ivy crumbling a wall. And it found them in me, even when I resisted." His tongue felt thick and reluctant, his throat dry. "It had set roots in me by the time we reached Bree." He tried to sound light and failed. "It did not need visions for long."

Sam sat very still, listening. "What did it do?"

"It simply took control." Frodo felt very brittle, the words too quiet, too precise, as though they might shatter. "Slowly, and by stages. It battered at me constantly. At first, I thought its will was my own. I thought I wanted to put it on, to hide from the... the Black Riders." Even that name pained him; it came to him that Sam's cheek lay against the shoulder that bore the Witch King's scar. He felt no pain or chill there, only the gentle warmth of Sam's face, and that gave him courage to go on.

"But then, it made me do things that were plainly not what I should have wanted. On Weathertop, it demanded I put it on-- and it won. After that, there were no more visions. Its trickery was exposed for what it was, and it abandoned seduction. Only the force of its will remained, a foul and filthy thing that was stronger every time I woke, and with every step I took towards the Black Land, it worked all the harder to destroy me, and came nearer succeeding."

Sam nodded quietly. "I could feel that about it," he said. "When I stepped through the Gate. I knew I must take it off; it was too strong for me. It would have taken me over by brute force, I think."

"Yes," Frodo agreed. "It would have crushed you, if it could. And it was much stronger when worn."

"It tried to crush you." Sam's voice was very soft.

"It did crush me, in the end." Frodo felt his throat constrict, but forced words past the barrier. "As we walked through the Black Land, I was driven farther and farther inside my own head. In that place, I did not have to wear it for it to speak to me, and it made no pretense of promises or pleasant visions. It was all I could do to move my own body as I wished, not as it willed. I was a prisoner inside myself towards the end, a remnant of self, taken over by a power I could not resist, pushed farther and farther in to a small corner until there was nothing left but--"

He could not go on for a moment, and he passed his hand over his face. It came away wet; he was sweating. "Nothing but *wanting to put it on,* he finished finally, his voice barely a husk. "And knowing I mustn't. But I also knew my own will was fading; I should never have made it up the last stretch to the Sammath Naur, except by that time it wanted me to go there, where its power to destroy me would be strongest. It knew it would win. It exulted in its victory. I had no choice but to go on, even knowing that."

Frodo sat silent for a long time, struggling to find words, and Sam held him, crooning softly, the sound very near a lullaby, as he offered wordless support until Frodo could continue. "It was a pleasure to give in." Frodo's voice shook. "An unbearable pleasure. It felt better and worse than anything I have ever known. Pleasure consumed me like a devouring flame, and I was lost."

Sam's hand crept out and clasped his, and Frodo held it tightly. He was empty of words for the moment; he did not have the courage to speak the conclusion of his thought and lay plain the connection for Sam. But he did not have to.

"So when you feel pleasure, you go back to that place." Sam's voice was thick with misery. "I knew something must be terribly wrong when I woke to find you'd gone away. I meant to show you how good love-making could feel, but all I did was--" His voice rose, shrill with distress, and he tried to pull away.

"It wasn't your fault!" Frodo's voice broke, and he held Sam tightly, refusing to let him escape. "I'm sorry. It was me."

Sam subsided, trembling in his arms. "I won't agree that it was your fault," he managed at last, "And it wasn't you. It was that filthy Ring." He sat quietly for a long moment, his knuckles white, his fist clenched where it lay on Frodo's thigh. "Frodo, you must tell me when such a thing happens. You mustn't hide such a thing from me, not and let me hurt you, all unknowing!"

"I couldn't speak," Frodo said, so softly he could barely hear himself. "I don't know why."

They sat together for a long while without speaking, while the tension in Sam's muscles increased and subsided alternately, as his thoughts made war in the silence. When at last he was calm in Frodo's arms, Frodo spoke again, his voice shaking with effort.

"I want to try again," he said.

"But Frodo!" Sam tensed with alarm. "Won't that--?"

"I don't want it to take all chance of love from me. I don't want it to take anything of you that I might have!" Frodo spat fiercely, rage seizing him-- rage at the lingering power of Sauron's evil, and his own failure to be rid of it. "We can try a different way, but I want to try, if you will try with me; I won't let its memory control me from so far away, so long after!"

Sam lifted his head; he reached and his fingers slid across Frodo's cheek and into his hair. He met Frodo's eyes steadily, with eyes that were red-rimmed from tears and dimmed with weariness and sorrow. "I'll try with you," he said softly. "But we've got to find a way to keep you with me. If I can't be sure you're all right, I won't do it!"

"We'll find a way," Frodo promised him, and all the fierce anger into him solidified into resolve. "If Celebrían can overcome such a thing, surely I can also."

A squall of rain drummed suddenly against the window-pane, a harsh rattle that made Frodo jump and glance to the window with alarm. He looked back down at Sam sheepishly.

"I'll close the shutter, and we'd best be getting to bed," Sam said, his stout heart back in place, tears forgotten. "Whatever we mean to do, it won't do to face the coming days without sleep."

"Sleep." Frodo sighed, wistful; his eyes felt grainy and dry. But he did not want to go back to his own empty, unfamiliar room. He felt very small and timid as he stood there, trying to find the words for what he wanted, until he realized Sam was hesitating similarly, the shutter closed and the window secure.

"Would you like to come to bed? We wouldn't have to...." Sam gestured helplessly, and color touched his cheeks.

"I would," Frodo felt himself blush also. "Thank you."

He reached for Sam's hand, feeling dreadfully petty and foolish, and together they went back through the hall to Sam's room, where the pictures of his family hung, indistinct in the shadows from the soot-dimmed oil lamp Frodo still carried. He hesitated, looking at a framed sketch of Rose, which hung over Sam's bed, half-frozen with uncertainty.

"She always knew how I felt about you," Sam said simply, when he noticed the direction of Frodo's gaze. "She wanted this for me when she was gone; she often spoke of the time when I would sail to find you." He choked up a little, and his eyes glistened. "You were as real to my family as I could make you; they all knew the Red Book by heart. They knew you and loved you, Frodo, Rosie and Elanor not the least." He hesitated. "Mayhap I can tell you more about them, some day when you're ready to hear it." He smiled ruefully. "But not tonight."

Sam took the lamp and set it aside; the merciful shadows let Frodo slip into the bed and underneath the cool cotton sheets. Then Sam snuffed the small flame and climbed in next to him, and Frodo found his safe haven, and sleep, in Sam's gentle arms.


	19. Awakening

Frodo awoke in confusion, disoriented by the light spilling over his face from the wrong side of the room and the joyous singing of birds outside the window--the liquid song of a linnet, not the lonely calling of the gulls to which he was so long accustomed. He lifted himself on his elbow and blinked to find himself in an unfamiliar bright room with Rose Cotton-- no, Gardner, he reminded himself-- beaming down on him from the wall. She did not, it seemed, mind finding him here.

Sam was already out and had thrown the shutters wide and opened the window, letting in the bright morning. Frodo rose, stretching his neck, and went to the window. The storm, it seemed was past. The air felt heavy with the remnants of rain, but it had been washed to brilliance, and the world outside glowed as though lit from within, the grass a clear, pure emerald. A few leaves had fallen to litter the yard, but that, it seemed, was all.

A splash of white moved at the edge of Frodo's view and turned into Sam, a sack over his shoulder; he was walking about collecting a few stray sticks and putting to rights any damages the wind had wrought in his garden. He looked to Frodo and smiled, sunny as the morning, before vanishing into the orchard.

Frodo yawned and went looking for his things, finding them awaiting in his abandoned room. He chose a little pile of clothes and went down the hall to the bathing room, where a copper awaited, half-full of hot water left ready for him. 

It was a relief to wash the sand out of his hair, and he made a note to himself that he should go and shake the rest of it out of Sam's sheets. But that could wait until after breakfast. A savory smell of frying eggs and mushrooms tickled his nose, and he could hear Bilbo singing a morning song to himself in the kitchen.

Toweling his hair and then hanging the towel on its rack, Frodo slipped down the hall, somewhat abashed, and joined Bilbo in the breakfast preparations. He busied himself searching through the cupboard until he had found all he needed for place settings.

"Is Gandalf about?"

"He's out having a bit of a smoke on the stoop. He and Sam have already eaten and washed up--we're lucky they left any over for slug-a-beds." Bilbo peppered the eggs with a generous hand and stifled a sneeze. "They have their heads together more often than not these days! They planted pipe-weed, don't you know--I'm sure that's more than half the reason Gandalf stayed to see to the weather personally." Bilbo chuckled. "Sam twisted a few arms back in the Shire; he has plans to build a curing-barn and he says he has the Hornblowers' family recipe for the best Southern Star. We shall see!" He lifted the skillet and spooned eggs on to Frodo's plate. "There are toast and tomatoes on the board."

Frodo and Bilbo ate together, sitting at a half-table nestled snug up against the wall so that the diners could all look through the window into the garden. It was easy to feel hungry; being in an unfamiliar hole gave Frodo the faint feeling of a holiday. Between them, they made short work of the eggs and tomatoes and ate nearly a whole loaf of toast with plenty of honey and butter.

After Frodo had helped wash the dishes, he dressed and re-made Sam's big bed, avoiding Rosie's eyes, and then let himself out into the morning. He could hear Sam's cow champing her feed and rattling her wooden trough in the byre, a domestic sound that struck him as both strange and familiar all at once. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped out on to the green, where Gandalf stood, absorbed in his pipe.

"Now in Valinor is preserved the best of the Shire," Gandalf nodded to him with customary gravity, expelling a sweet grey cloud. "Do you find it a faithful reproduction, Frodo?"

"Both faithful and not, as if the Shire had been painted in memory or carved in stained glass," Frodo answered. 

"Hrm," Gandalf cleared his throat cordially, and gazed out into the orchard, where Sam trotted to and fro, gathering up limbs from the grass. "A fair estimate, perhaps. There was little damage here; he has already cleared the worst of it. But I fear your smial did not fare so well."

Frodo sighed, having half-expected the answer. "I should go and see what is required for rebuilding."

Gandalf shot him a quick look from beneath his long white brows. "Indeed." He drew at his pipe for a few moments in silence. Sam chose that moment to approach, carrying a sack filled with leaves and small branches--little enough damage from a storm powerful enough to wreak havoc only a few hundred ells away at the seaside. 

"Good morning, Frodo!" His greeting was cheerful, but behind his look lay a thread of wariness. It made Frodo's heart leap to his throat, and he swallowed hard against his sorrow.

"Good morning," he said softly, and stepped forward. Too shy to embrace Sam under Gandalf's curious gaze, he settled for taking the sack and peering inside. "Is this all that was broken?" 

"Just a few branches, none as big as your finger." The wariness evaporated, and Sam's eyes warmed at him, the corners crinkling. "We'd have had worse at home from an ordinary thunderstorm."

"None of the pipe-weed was ruined, I trust." Gandalf gestured towards the garden with the mouth of his pipe, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Not so much as a leaf." Sam chuckled. "I'd say it was fine luck, if I didn't know better."

"Luck is what you make of opportunity and will, be you Hobbit, Maia, or Vala." The twinkle in Gandalf's eyes threatened to burst forth into laughter. "As is impertinence. Mind you, I think your luck, and the weather, will hold fine for a time." He cleared his throat and looked aside to Frodo. "It is in my mind to take Bilbo away to Kortirion for a time, to visit with Elrond."

Frodo paused, taken aback, but there seemed no occasion for protest. "That will please him." 

"I will arrange there for repairs to your smial, as well, if you like." Gandalf replaced his pipe between his teeth.

"That would be most kind." Frodo looked between Sam and Gandalf, well aware he was being manipulated. Sam's face remained placid. "I should like to go and have a look this morning."

"Shall I come with you?" Sam tied the mouth of the sack and set it up on the porch.

"Very well."

"I believe I will stay with Bilbo." Gandalf matched Sam for purest calm. "He'll be wanting help preparing for the journey."

"You are the most meddlesome of wizards," Frodo answered him with a wry chuckle. "I know no other who could be so adept at interfering in my affairs, even at rest and from afar!"

"A wizard's work is never done, whether he is active or idle," Gandalf pursed his lips, but his eyes were still merry. "And a wise friend knows when to step aside and let matters work themselves out, whether for worse or better."

"So it seems." Frodo ignored his discomfort at Gandalf's knowing look and faced Sam boldly. "Shall we be on our way?" He felt his own awkward formality keenly, but was at a loss to lighten it.

"I'll just leave this for the compost heap."

Sam was as good as his word. Within moments, they set forth along the garden path and were soon on the boardwalk, where the wet grey boards set free curls of gentle white vapor into the air. Frodo looked about, curious, but he could make little out from the look of the grasses on the dunes. As they walked farther, though, he could feel grit underfoot, and in places the dunes had shifted, crowding up against the walkway. The wind was already teasing fingers of sand forth across the way, and in one place, the dune had engulfed the path, drifting like the snows of Caradhras, nearly as deep as the hobbits' knees at its height. As they went forth, they found many more dunes that had shifted, encroaching on the pathway.

"This will be a trouble," Sam remarked as they climbed over. "We can sweep them away, but they will only come back."

Frodo nodded, hardly listening. The dunes often shifted so. He could hear the hiss and roar of the waves in the distance, and more than half his thought lay on his own hole. If it was merely a question of replacing windows and refinishing the plaster--

But it was not. Frodo's steps faltered; disoriented by the moving sand, he was out of his reckoning. Here must lie the end of the raised walk; there were no more boards, and he could see the upper halves of the two stout posts that stood driven in the sand to mark its end, though the low, broad steps were buried now. But of the smial that should stand at the end of the flagstone path, there was no sign: only dunes and sky lay ahead. He stood still, searching, and then went forward along the sand-buried path and on to the beach, but all there was to be found were a few shattered boards and sodden clumps of plaster poking out of the sand, and the implacable, rolling waves with their white foaming tops. 

Sam stepped to his side, and his hand, warm and strong, slipped gently into Frodo's. "It can be built anew," he murmured. "The Elves will help you."

Frodo scarcely understood at first; a vast emptiness roared inside him, as harsh and relentless as the sea, all his feelings at war with doubt, fear and loss and pain echoing faintly within the shock. Sam's hand anchored him, real and solid and warm. 

It was not the loss of the smial so much as knowledge that held him halt. He and Sam might have remained here, and had he chosen thus in his pride and vanity, they would have been swept away. Ulmo's promise to Frodo had not included Sam. Frodo pictured himself afloat upon the waves, perhaps washed out to sea, clinging to his boat or to some bit of rubble-- alive but lost, and even if he were found, it would only be to know the living strength of Sam's hand and his love had gone forever in repayment for his folly. His own Samwise, like Frodo's mother and his father, would surely have been taken by the merciless waters.

Ulmo had warned him in the quiet way of the Valar, and in his pride, Frodo had nearly failed to heed the warning. 

He bowed his head, remembering his dreams, remembering how he had once gone out of his home and down into the waters and let them take him, batter at him, push him down, filling his nostrils with salt-water and his mouth with sand. 

No longer could Frodo court the chance of drowning, half in love with the notion of his own death. Such a death would be all too real, and he knew now that it would not be his own.

"Frodo?" The gentle word raised him from the depths, like a rope thrown to his clutching hand.

"I suppose...." Frodo stammered, trying to find the train of Sam's thought. "The Elves will know where to begin."


End file.
